In Search of a Hero
by razztaztic
Summary: AU, set during WWII. With the whole world at war, the country needs a hero and finds one in Captain Seeley Booth, a pilot with a reputation for daredevil exploits in the air. After he's brought home to lead a USO bond drive, sparks fly when he meets Temperance Brennan, the woman assigned to manage the national tour. Rated T, with the possibility of change to an M later.
1. Chapter 1

"Miss Temperance Brennan?"

Brennan, along with everyone else in the room, looked up from her typewriter at the sound of her name. The rhythmic tapping sound of fingers on keys slowly faded to silence. The uniformed corporal who stood in the doorway obviously didn't know her by sight, as his gaze skimmed the faces of all of the typists sitting in neat rows behind their clunky black machines. She raised one hand to get his attention.

"It's Dr. Brennan, not Miss."

The corporal looked down in confusion at the note in his hand. "Uh, well, this here says Miss so . . ."

"Never mind her. She puts on airs, like that fancy college education matters when our boys are dying overseas." Mrs. Bridges, the grey-haired termagant who ran the typing pool as if it were a Dickensian workhouse, hurried over and snatched the paper from the hapless young man. Eyes wide with surprise, her free hand fluttered over an ivory cameo pinned to the neck of her blouse. "Oh my. This is from General Cullen. He wants to see you, Miss Brennan."

The metal legs scraped against the floor as Brennan pushed her chair back and got to her feet. She steadied herself with one hand resting lightly on the desk beside her typewriter. All too aware of the stares directed toward her, she looked instead at the corporal.

"Why would General Cullen ask to see me?"

The corporal pokered up with indignation and grabbed the note back from the unresisting hand of Mrs. Bridges. "The general doesn't answer questions from the typing pool. Come with me."

Mrs. Bridges piggybacked on his peremptory order. "Well, go on, girl. Don't keep him waiting! And none of that 'doctor' stuff either," she hissed, as Brennan passed her. "You're just Miss Brennan when you get up there, you hear me?"

Brennan ignored the old woman and hurried by. The clip of her heels couldn't mask the wave of talk that followed her out of the room.

The soldier waited ahead, his impatience showing as he waved her on. "Come on, put some giddy-up in those gams. The general doesn't like to be kept waiting."

She circled around a group of uniformed officers who cat-called and whistled as she passed, and pretended not to hear the offers of everything from a cigarette to a night on the town. All around, busy offices bustled even more as enlisted men by the dozens carried out furniture and boxes of files. The noise was a constant roar, and the smoke rising from the cigarettes and cigars of smoking men hung like a cloud everywhere.

It was somewhat quieter when they climbed up three flights of stairs to the Administration level. The corporal pointed her toward a closed door and then sat down at a small desk just outside it. "Go ahead," he said. "He's waiting."

Brennan approached the door with an unusual sense of wariness. No one - especially not a lowly typist - had ever been called to the upper offices. She spared one quick, fleeting wish that she'd taken the time to check her lipstick, then smoothed her skirt over her hips, squared her shoulders and knocked.

"Come in."

The gruff, no-nonsense voice matched the face of the man she'd only seen from afar as he marched through the building. General Sam Cullen, lean, with thinning gray hair and hazel eyes that turned the color of mud when he was angry, had been a fixture in the Army long before the United States officially entered the war after Pearl Harbor. Now, two years later, he was more entrenched than ever. Rumour had it that the business of packing and moving happening on the lower floors was solely due to his efforts to move Army headquarters from the crowded Munitions Building to new offices in the just-constructed Pentagon. Uncertain whether the general would expect a salute from a civilian employee of the Army, Brennan simply came to a stop and stood as straight as she could.

"General Cullen. I was told you wanted to see me."

Cullen gestured curtly to one of two chairs placed in front of his desk. The rest of the office matched his personality; the walls were painted a utilitarian white, the filing cabinets were gunmetal grey and except for the obligatory photographs of a wife and daughter and a framed diploma from West Point on the wall, the room was unadorned. "Yes, thank you, Miss Brennan - -"

"Dr. Brennan."

"Excuse me?" General Cullen was clearly not accustomed to being interrupted. Heedless of Mrs. Bridges' earlier warning, Brennan's chin rose as she held his gaze.

"I'm Dr. Brennan, not Miss Brennan. I hold two Ph.D.s from Northwestern University - -"

He cut her off, opening a thin folder lying in front of him and shifting through a few type-written pages. "That's right. Says here that you're not a real doctor, though. You're just some kind of egghead scientist. Is that right?"

The crass insult felt like a test. Brennan remained stoic and expressionless. "I am a scientist, yes."

"But you're sitting in the Army's typing pool pecking out requisition lists for the quartermaster."

Brennan's chin inched up further. "I came here to study forensic anthropology at Georgetown University. The Ph.D. program has unfortunately been put on hold until after the war. I needed a job so . . . Yes. I'm working in the typing pool."

The clipped words belied the sense of outrage she still felt at the cancellation of her degree program, simply because the male students had rushed off to join the war effort. Cullen, however, picked up on the resentment simmering beneath the explanation.

"Another Ph.D.? You collecting diplomas or something?" He wasn't interested in answer, and waved her to silence when she opened her mouth to speak. He leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily, twirling a fountain pen between his fingers. "Mrs. Bridges tells me that you reorganized all the work that comes in down there."

Somewhat irritated at his autocratic manner and surprised that her bad-tempered supervisor had mentioned her at all, let alone in terms that might be considered favorable, Brennan frowned. "I merely made a few suggestions for improving the efficiency of our day."

"She said you drew diagrams."

Brennan felt heat rising in her cheeks. "Visual aids can be helpful when it comes to explaining new processes."

"Well, I need someone who knows how to get things organized." Cullen reached for a folded newspaper sitting on top of a thick red folder. He opened it, then turned it so it was facing Brennan. "Have you seen this?"

She glanced briefly at a headline that screamed EIGHTH AIR ACE PILOT BOOTH CRASH LANDS RECORD 17TH MISSION! WALKS AWAY FROM PLANE IN FLAMES! The grainy photo that accompanied the article showed a hunched figure running from the fiery wreckage of a B-17 bomber. Brennan shivered, an uncontrollable movement that took her by surprise, and shoved the newspaper away.

"No, I don't read the papers."

Cullen's eyes sharpened. "Why not? You're not some kind of pacifist, are you?"

Brennan shook her head. "No, I'm not. I simply hear enough about the war during the work day. I've found that the information printed in the newspaper is often incorrect or fails to match what I've heard here."

"Huh. Well, you should read this one." He pushed the newspaper back toward her, along with the thick red file. "Along with all of this other stuff. I'm re-assigning you to the War Finance Office, over in Treasury, starting tomorrow. That pilot, Captain Booth, we're bringing him home to recover from this last batch of injuries, and after that, he's going to help us sell some war bonds. Treasury doesn't have the staff for another campaign so they asked for somebody to help plan the tour, and that's you. The doctors think he'll be ready to head out in about six weeks, so that's how long you've got to get everything in order."

Brennan stared at him in shock. "Excuse me? I have a job already. You can't just . . ."

"I think you'll find that these . . ." General Cullen tapped the pen in his hand against the stars that lined the collar of his khaki brown shirt. " . . . mean that I can."

"But why me?" Brennan asked helplessly. "I have no experience with this sort of work."

Cullen shrugged. "Since you have two Ph.D.s, I guess you're smart enough to figure it out. Plus, I've done some asking around. You don't take any guff and you don't seem to be looking for a wedding ring. That's the kind of girl I need handling this. The Captain won't respect some headquarters pencil-pusher who's never seen action telling him what's what, and I don't need some dame losing her head over his pretty face when she should be concentrating on how to sell more bonds. You'll do the trick."

Brennan shook her head, surprised and a little overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all. "I . . . I don't know what to say."

"Start with 'yes, sir,'" General Cullen said, before he pushed his chair back and stood up, signaling an end to their meeting. "Congratulations, Miss . . . Dr. Brennan. You've been promoted."

.

* * *

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 _This idea has been keeping me up at night. Hold on to your hats, you're in for a fun ride! :-D_


	2. The Road Not Taken

Brennan squeezed herself into the last available seat on the crowded streetcar and tucked her handbag in her lap, along with the thick red folder that she'd carried out of General Cullen's office. Recent bulletins in the evening news programs over the wireless had been rife with stories of pickpockets and petty theft on Washington DC's crowded buses and trams and although she'd never seen even a hint of such activity, she was cautious nonetheless. She sighed and closed her eyes, and leaned back to rest her head against the window behind her, only to bump against the wide brim of the hat worn by the woman sitting next to her. She murmured an apology and sat up straight, then was jostled into a gentle sway as the streetcar jolted forward.

Two stops later, past the Department of Agriculture and the Bureau of Engraving, and the small public conveyance was filled to capacity, every seat taken and the aisles full of chattering government workers hanging onto straps and metal poles, all headed home after the long workday.

Brennan closed her eyes and tried to close her ears to the cacophony as a stream of foul-smelling cigar smoke blew in her direction. She needed a cup of hot tea and a headache powder, if one could be found in the women's boarding house where she'd been living since coming to DC. If she were lucky and no one had reserved the tiny bathroom on her floor, she might even get the luxury of a long, hot bath. If nothing else, she'd settle for the tea.

The afternoon had been interminably long. Her return to the typing pool after the meeting with General Cullen had been met with an explosion of questions, none of which she could answer. She didn't know why she had been plucked from relative obscurity to organize a bond drive with an injured pilot she'd never heard of. She had no idea which cities the tour would reach, or how long it would last. She certainly didn't know if any movie stars would be appearing on the tour, as well. All she knew was that she was to report to the Treasury department the next day, for what she hoped would be a set of thorough, detailed instructions.

Mrs. Bridges seemed to take Brennan's escape from the typing pool as a personal affront, and spent the remaining hours of her dominion over the younger woman muttering about what fate lay in store for girls who 'got above themselves' and threatening dire consequences for 'putting on airs.' By the time she was allowed to pack up the few personal belongings she kept in her desk, Brennan thought she just might owe this unknown pilot a kiss of gratitude for getting her out from under the old lady's thumb.

The streetcar was no less crowded when a tinkling bell signaled the stop that Brennan used. She squeezed through, clutching both the red folder and her purse close to her body, until she stepped onto the sidewalk to began the three-block trek to the boarding house. She hesitated briefly, taking a moment to enjoy the fresh spring air and the evening sky settling into dusk above her head. Despite the lingering headache and the uncertainty of her new assignment, a sense of freedom . . . of anticipation . . . surged through her. The meticulously-planned path she'd laid out for her life, rudely derailed and disrupted by the war and the closing of her degree program, now branched ahead into new and uncharted territory. Never one to enjoy the unpredictable, she found herself now strangely eager to meet the unexpected, to peer around the corner solely for the joy of discovery.

She headed home with a new lightness to her step.

The front door of the three-story, red brick townhouse was unlocked, a fact which her already-burdened hands appreciated and which gave her cause to hope that she might be able to escape upstairs to her room unnoticed by the group she could hear gossiping in the lady's parlour to the left of the door. Alas, it was not to be.

"Dr. Brennan!" The perky voice was as bouncy as the dun-colored ponytail swishing on the back of her head as a young woman bounded out into the foyer. "Oh my gosh! There you are!"

Brennan kicked the door closed with the toe of one shoe, unable to prevent the smile that curved her lips at the enthusiastic greeting. "Yes, Daisy, here I am. You know, you may call me Temperance. There's no need to stand on formality here."

Daisy's eyes grew round. "Oh, no. I couldn't do that. I like calling you Dr. Brennan. I've never known a lady doctor before. You're an inspiration!"

Brennan shrugged and, ignoring the anticipation in the quickly shushed voices in the parlour, turned toward the staircase that lead to the upper floors. "As you wish. Well, if you'll excuse me . . ."

The subtle hint went unnoticed; Daisy stuck to her heels, chattering all the way up.

"Is it true what they're saying?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific," Brennan said dryly, as they reached the next floor. Her room was behind the second door on the right, the farthest from the noise of the stairs but closest to the communal bathroom located at the end of the hall. When she opened her door, Daisy followed her inside.

"Oh my gosh," she giggled, hiding behind the hand covering her mouth. "You sound so smart, like a teacher. Or a college professor!"

Brennan sighed as she put the over-stuffed red folder on her bed, and set her purse on top of it. The headache was creeping back across her temples and entertaining a young puppy with a case of hero-worship wouldn't help. "Daisy, was there something you wanted?"

The girl was clueless. She glanced around the conspicuously well-kept room, furnished with a neatly-made bed and a dust-free dresser and mirrored wardrobe, with a hand-painted privacy screen in the corner with a robe thrown across one end, and against the wall, one final piece of furniture that Brennan had purchased herself: a sturdy desk and chair, with a small black typewriter sitting squarely in the middle.

"I don't know how you keep everything so neat and tidy! I can't stop scattering my stockings everywhere!"

"It's merely habit," Brennan answered curtly. Deciding that only plain-speaking would get her the privacy she wanted, she walked over to the still open door and gestured through it. "I've had a long day and I would like to be alone now. Could we talk later?"

Daisy stayed where she was and began to babble at a frenetic pace. "Oh, but Dr. Brennan, my friend Cheryl, you've met her, she came for dinner once. She works in the filing room at the Treasury Department. She doesn't get to see money being printed, though. Did you know that's a completely separate department? You would think that since treasury means money it would all be in the same place but go figure! Anyway, Cheryl's friend Barbara Jean, her fella is in the Army, only he works at headquarters because he was hit by shrapnel in Italy and now he has a bum knee. I don't know his name but he told Barbara Jean that General Cullen - can you imagine it! - General Cullen met with this lady doctor and put her in charge of a whole trip across the country selling war bonds with Captain Booth, and he's a real hero and everything! Barbara Jean told Cheryl and Cheryl told me and, well, I knew that it had to be you that they were talking about because you're probably the only lady doctor in the whole country. So is it?"

It took Brennan a full thirty seconds to process the flood of words enough that she could make a reasonable response. "Yes, that was me. I mean to say that, yes, I have been re-assigned. But I can assure you that I am far from being the only woman in the country with a doctorate," she added, "not to mention the many women serving as medical doctors. Although I will admit that those numbers are woefully inadequate. Women are more than capable of - -"

A peremptory knock on the door cut her off just as Brennan realized that she was babbling as much as Daisy had been. Caroline Julian, the owner of the boarding house which she, Daisy and six other women called home, stood in the doorway.

Like Mrs. Bridges' control of the typing pool, Mrs. Julian ran her boarding house with an iron will and little room for argument. Unlike Mrs. Bridges, however, Mrs. Julian's instructions were never mean-spirited or created out of ill-will. Curt and abrupt and even acerbic at times, she was a stern maternal presence to the young women she housed, but was also quick to offer a listening ear or a handkerchief to wipe away tears, or a word of advice - whether asked for or not.

Just now, she looked at Brennan with a disapproving eyebrow raised high. "You have a gentleman caller, Dr. Brennan."

The words shocked both Brennan and Daisy.

"I do?"  
"She does?"

Other than a scowling frown that plainly told Daisy to be silent, Caroline ignored her. "A sailor," she told Brennan, with a look that made it obvious she did not approve of sailors.

Brennan frowned, unable to think of a single male acquaintance who fit the description of her mysterious guest. "Are you certain that he wants to see me?"

Caroline's full bosom swelled even more with outrage. "I'm sure there's nothing wrong with my hearing. I've put him in the visitor's lounge. You can meet with him there."

There was obviously no question of bringing a man up to her room. Brennan nodded and shuffled Daisy ahead of her as she followed Caroline out. "Yes, Mrs. Julian. Thank you."

"And mind you keep that door open, too," Caroline called after her as Brennan stepped quickly down the stairs. "I won't have behavior of a loose moral character in my house!"

"Of course, Mrs. Julian."

The visitor's lounge was on the main floor, directly across from the lady's parlour, and shared one wall with the stairs that led to the second and third levels. The door stood half-open but even standing in front of it, Brennan was unable to see her mystery guest until she pushed it open fully. When the dark-haired young man turned to face her, she gasped in surprise.

"Sully! What are you doing here?" Her gaze slid down the length of him, from the newly-shorn hair, dented at the crown from the hat he now twisted in his hand, to the sparkling white uniform that was so new, she could still see faint traces of the creases made while it had been folded and stored on a shelf. "And what have you done!"

He gave her a smile, as boyish and handsome as ever, his teeth white against the teak-brown tan of his skin. "I joined up, Tempe. I'm going to do my bit. How's about a hug for an old friend?"

She went willingly into his arms and when they wrapped her up tight against him, was swamped with memories. They'd met when she moved to the tiny community of Marco Island, Florida, for an anthropology internship in the Everglades in the mid '30s, just after the end of Prohibition. He skippered a fishing trawler, and owned a fleet of two more to boot. Friendship became a passion-fueled romance, that Brennan had ended when she realized his dreams of their life together differed from her own. Now, with his lips on hers, his kiss familiar and warm, held in his arms again after so many years apart, her affection for him made her fear for him stronger.

"You foolish, foolish man. You were doing your bit! You're a fisherman! The country needs food suppliers, especially with rationing and so much fresh meat being used to feed the troops."

He leaned back, his soft brown eyes in their web of sun-worn creases traveling over her face as gently as a caress. "The boats are still going out. The old men who can't fight, or the ones too young to join yet, they can handle it."

Brennan touched his cheek, aware of the heat from his hands against her back, through the silky rayon dress. The casual slide of his fingers raised goosebumps on her arms. "You never mentioned your desire to enlist, not in any of your letters."

Sully shrugged. They both knew there was much more that had gone unmentioned in what had become a regular exchange of correspondence over the years since their breakup. "I wanted to surprise you. Did it work?"

"It certainly did." She took his hand and led him to a sofa just out of view of the open door. "When do you ship out?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" The single word took the air out of her lungs. "But, Sully . . ."

"I got a 24-hour pass, I just didn't realize it would take most of that time to get here. The buses were all full . . . Never mind." He still held her hand, and turned his body so that their knees brushed. "I'm shipping out of Norfolk, on the USS Essex. You should see her, Tempe. She's beautiful. New, as of last year. We're headed to the Pacific."

"Oh, Sully." Brennan did not share his excitement. With her father too old to serve and her brother determined to stay with his wife and handicapped daughter, the war had not yet touched her on a personal level. Now, despite the years that had passed since the end of their fledgling love affair, it felt very personal.

Sully seemed determined to keep this brief interlude on a light note. "Come on, doll. How's about you let me buy you dinner. Gotta be a place around her we can eat, right?"

With her heart heavy, Brennan nonetheless smiled. "Of course. Give me a minute to freshen up and I'll be right down."

Curious faces poked out of the parlour but no one called out as Brennan quickly skipped upstairs. When she came back down, however, Caroline was waiting with Sully in the foyer.

"I'm going out for dinner, Mrs. Julian."

"Hrrumph." Caroline gave Sully a scathing once over, then turned to Brennan. "These doors are locked promptly at 10:00 pm. You just keep that in mind."

"Yes, Mrs. Julian."

Sully managed to wait until they were a few feet from the house and definitely out of earshot before he wrapped an arm around Brennan's waist and laughed. "Whoa. Roosevelt should think about sending her over to tell the Jerry's what's what. I know I'm quaking in my boots!"

"She has a house full of young, single women to protect in a city filled with soldiers," Brennan said loyally. "I find her presence comforting."

"Well, I'm glad to know you're in good hands." Sully squeezed her in close to his side and held her there. "Now, which way to the grub?"

.

.

The daily special in the small diner was meatloaf. Brennan only picked at her meal but watched as Sully plowed his way through two helpings of everything, served by a helpful waitress who shared the news that her son, too, was in the Navy. Over coffee, Sully apologized for his appetite.

"Feels like I haven't eaten since this morning . . . probably because I haven't," he laughed. "The bus stops didn't have food and I didn't think to bring my own."

"Where are you staying tonight?"

His eyes twinkled at her, teasing. "The bus depots let us sleep there while we're waiting for the next transport. Why, are you offering?"

Brennan laughed, feeling her cheeks grow pink. Memories lay between them, of hot, sultry nights serenaded by the sounds of the swamp, or lulled by the sway of a boat drifting in the water. "Should I re-introduce you to Mrs. Julian? If I took you back to my room, I might have to stow away on your ship afterward."

Sully reached for her hand, his face growing serious. "That's okay. Come with me."

This moment, too, felt familiar. Brennan tugged at her hand, only to find it held firm. "Sully . . ."

"I'm not asking you to wait for me, Tempe. That wouldn't be fair, me showing up like this out of the blue. But I promise that I'll come back, and when I do, then we can talk."

She got her hand free then, and dropped them both to her lap. "We've already talked, Sully. Years ago. Nothing's changed."

"Everything's changed!" he insisted. "And with the war, well, now you've got all the time you need to get all that other stuff out of your system. All that education and . . . whatever. When I get back, when the war's over, we can talk about the future. Our future. One where you marry me and we have a couple of kids and . . ."

"No." It was the crux of their disagreement all those years ago, that the future he envisioned was not a life she wanted to live. Forcing her to make the decision again, especially now, with death an ever-present cloud and Sully preparing to sail right into it, angered her. "I'm not going to marry you, Sully. I don't want to marry anyone."

He brushed aside her words as he had before. "Of course you do. Every woman wants a husband and a couple of kids. I'll go help save the world and you go ahead and do this school thing and you know, when we have kids you can take them out and dig up bones with them. It will be fun."

Brennan was almost grateful for his cavalier dismissal of her hopes and dreams. It made it easier to push aside the memories of the passion and love they'd shared. It made it easier to walk away, again, from his version of her future. She took a deep breath and steeled herself to say what she must.

"Sully, I'm glad you came to see me and I hope that you'll write as often as you're able. I'll worry about you and I want to know that you're safe. But . . ." She met his gaze dry-eyed and hardened her heart against the hurt she saw there. "Don't come back for me. I don't love you, not like that. Not anymore. I'm sorry."

She left him sitting in the diner and walked back to the boarding house on her own, managing somehow to hold back the tears until she was alone, finally, in her room.

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* * *

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 _I apologize to any of you WW2 experts who know that the USS Essex' home port is in Rhode Island. Work with me, people. It's fanfiction._


	3. A Hero On Hold

_The sky rained fire all around him. Bits of flame carved from the depths of hell itself searched for him, found thin sheets of aluminum . . . Punched through. The stick jerked in his hand from the force of the impact. The plane, the only protection from the inferno outside . . . from the ground below . . . bucked and shuddered, fighting against his struggle to hold it aloft. Screams surrounded him . . . from the men who flew with him, from the bullets streaking toward him. The enemy was just ahead, flying straight at him in a move both reckless and dangerous . . . and lethally effective._

 _He felt the heat through his boots, inhaled the acrid scent of burning leather, then saw the orange glow at his feet. He ground his teeth against the pain and raged against the hopelessness of escape with one last thought . . ._

 _He might die today, but he would take the other pilot with him._

.

.

.

It was a dream. Booth knew it was a dream even as he fought to free himself of a safety harness he wasn't wearing and shouted to the crew that wasn't there, promising to get them to safety.

It was a dream . . . He knew it was a dream . . .

 _Fire . . . and heat . . . and pain . . ._

"Captain Booth!"

He had to wake up. If he could just wake up . . .

"Captain Booth!"

 _Panicked screaming behind him . . . Someone praying out loud . . . His men . . . His crew . . . His responsibility . . ._

"Captain Booth!"

 _Trapped . . . Get out of the cockpit . . ._

"Doctor! Doctor, over here please! Winklehurst, hold his legs, don't let him tumble out of bed. Gently, please! Mind his feet. Someone get Dr. Smythe-Chambers! Now!"

 _Pull the nose up . . . His responsibility . . ._

"Yes, Matron, what's all this yelling about? Ah, our Yank is coming out of it, I see. Making a bit of a fuss, is he?"

 _His crew . . . His men . . . His duty . . ._

"Morphine, I think. That should do the trick."

He felt a sharp pinch that in his fevered imagination became a bullet striking deep into his flesh . . . and then felt only peace. Blessed peace . . .

.

.

.

The fever broke the next day. He woke, groggy, with the foul taste of grit and cotton filling his mouth. The bleary haze behind his eyes cleared enough that he saw a row of narrow white-covered beds and uniformed nurses moving between them . . . then memory returned like a punch to the gut. His plane . . . his men . . . He struggled to free himself of the blankets covering him, kicking his legs and feet, unable to hold back a hoarse shout when pain lanced through him. A hand touched his arm.

"You don't want to be starting all that again, Captain. The nurses here are real quick with the jab. You keep making all that noise and one of 'em will get her needle out and put you under again, real quick."

The remnants of the dream held him fast in its grip, quickening his breath with panic. "My crew . . ."

"All safe. They're all safe, Captain. You got everyone home."

The comforting words and the familiar voice finally broke through the nightmare. Booth fell back against the bed and looked over at Lt. Clark Edison, sitting in a wheelchair beside his bed, one arm in a sling and salve glistening on his cheek over a nasty burn. A mistake in Army paperwork had assigned the young Black pilot not to the 332nd Fighter Group in North Africa with the rest of his Tuskegee classmates, but to the Eighth Air Force flying bombing missions over Germany. The disapproving grumbles from some of the men lasted until he took to the air for the first time. He flew with a skill that was breathtaking in its daring, hauling the somewhat clunky bomber into maneuvers that he made look as easy as if the plane was an extension of his own body. After seeing him fly, no one complained about his place in the squad.

"Where am I? What happened?"

Clark kept a sharp eye on him. "What do you remember?"

Thinking hurt. Booth raised one hand to his temple and felt the thick padding of a bandage as he forced his brain to work. What did he remember? Blue skies. Patchy white clouds. Acres of farmland below that should have been verdant and fertile but were instead pockmarked by devastation and the ravages of war.

"The mission," he ground out. "The bridge in Hamburg, we hit the target. Turned to come back. All clear the whole way there. No anti-aircraft fire. No flak. It was . . . wrong. Too quiet. Then the bastards came out of nowhere. Above us, out of the clouds. Too many of them. The fighters couldn't protect us . . . We couldn't protect them . . ."

He stopped, unable to go on, seeing the death spiral of planes behind his closed eyes.

"How many?"

Clark didn't have to ask what he meant. "The bombers all made it back, just barely. Some of the planes won't be going up again, though. Your's for instance, ain't even good for parts. Got some injuries on the crews, a few men scattered all over this hospital, some of them pretty banged up. Couple of pilots, and you. And . . . three fighters when down."

Booth slumped at the news, even though it was what he expected. "Goddammit. Who?"

"Mulvany. Crown." The hesitation was too long. Booth tensed, waiting for the third name. "Abernathy."

He would have exploded out of the bed if he'd been able to move without pain. The young hotshot fighter pilot, barely out of his teens, had swaggered into the barracks only three short weeks before, straight from flight school on his first assignment in the war. Quick with a joke, always laughing, his twangy southern drawl had become a fixture among the tightly-knit band of aviators. "No! I saw him head for the landing strip! His tail was smoking but he was fine!"

Clark stared down at his hands. "Near as we can figure out, he saw Skinner getting hit hard by two of the Jerrys, so Abernathy skimmed the grass but went right back up without landing. Skinner made it down safe but . . ."

"Stupid kid. Always talking about going home a hero . . ."

Booth didn't have to finish. There was no more to say and no more tears to shed. A sense of helplessness washed over him, mixed with rage at the waste of a young life. At all of the lives he knew would yet be sacrificed in a war that felt as if it would never end. He clamped his jaw shut and shoved the feelings away, deep into the void that held the rest of his emotions and whatever softness had existed in the man he'd been before the war. One day, if he made it through the next mission . . . if he lived . . . one day he might have to deal with the seething cauldron of anger and pain and simmering violence that underpinned every waking moment. One day, he might have a reckoning with himself.

Today, however, was not that day. He raked Clark with one keen glance. "What happened to you?"

Clark switched on a high-wattage smile with a speed that said he, too, was avoiding his own demons. "Nothing but a little scrape or two. I woulda already been out of here but, you know, they got a couple of nurses who feel real sorry for me. I thought I'd stay a while, see what kind of special treatment they have to offer."

Booth knew bravado when he heard it, especially when he saw a smear of blood leaking through the bandages wrapped around the thin torso, visible beneath the young man's hospital-issued gown. He let it pass. "Is that so. Well, don't keep all the pretty ones to yourself. Give the rest of us a chance." Still lying flat on his back, he tried to sit up, only to bite back a curse when pain shot up his legs. When he tried to flip the covers out of the way to check his injuries for himself, they caught over his toes and added to his misery. "What the hell is going on? What did they do to me?"

Clark knew better than to even crack a smile, regardless of how funny it was to see the captain flailing around on the bed. "Your nose caught fire, practically burned your boots right off. Took some skin, too, and then a little more when you managed to crawl out of the cockpit and run away. Made a good picture, though." He blinked innocently. "That photographer who was shadowing the squad, what is his name? Henry? He got one of you with the plane blowing up behind you. I hear it made the front page. You want me to get you a copy for your scrapbook?"

When Booth used a choice few four-letter words to tell him exactly what he could do with the front page picture, Clark cackled with laughter.

Unfortunately, the noise captured more attention than they wanted. At the other end of the ward, Matron's head turned toward them like a hunter sensing prey. She straightened from the bed of a young soldier whose head was almost completely covered in bandages and walked purposefully toward them. Middle-aged, with steel-grey hair rolled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck, she marched at a gait that sent the veil hanging from the back of her white cap gently swaying. The apron she wore over a starched blue dress was pristine and spotless, and with a short red capelet hanging from her shoulders, she had an air of authority that rivaled any general who had ever entered her ward. Every occupant in the room fell silent as she passed by.

She stopped at Booth's bed, stepping around to the side opposite where Clark Edison sat in his wheelchair. "Captain Booth, you're awake. How are you feeling?" Without giving him a chance to answer, she laid a cool hand across his forehead and then stuck a thermometer in his mouth. A raised eyebrow accompanied her study of the results when she removed it sixty-seconds later. "Good, your temperature has almost returned to normal. Would you like something to drink?"

"Whiskey would clean the cotton out of my mouth." Booth gave her a smile that would have raised a blush on any other woman's cheeks.

"So would water, and that's what you'll have." Matron was unimpressed with any soldier's smile, no matter how handsome. Back straight, hands clasped neatly in front, she regarded him without expression. "Now, what about lunch? Something light, perhaps? We don't want it coming right back up, do we? We want to put you firmly on the road to recovery before you return to America."

Her words landed like a dowsing of cold water. Shocked, Booth struggled to sit up again, managing only to raise himself onto one elbow. "What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere."

Clark cleared his throat with a light cough. "Yeah, I was going to tell you about that. I overheard Colonel Armstrong talking to a 2-star last night. They were talking about sending you stateside for a while. Gonna have you out on stage somewhere, doing a song and dance and telling people to Buy Bonds!"

Booth puffed up with outrage. "The hell they are! There's a war going on! I'm staying right here!"

Matron tutted in disapproval. "Language, Captain Booth. You're not in your squad room now."

Ignoring the pointed scolding, he scowled at her. "Where's the Colonel? I want to talk to him right now!"

The peremptory order in his voice turned her gaze to ice. "I'm afraid I can't say. Despite my efforts, your commanders have refused to share their schedule with me."

Booth would have squirmed, if he'd been able to manage it in the narrow bed. His eyes dropped away. "You could have just said, 'I don't know.'"

"Yes, I could." The crisp tones gave no quarter. "I'll see to having a tray brought over with some lunch. In the meantime, I'm sure you need to void your bladder." She looked over the ward, found the nurse she wanted, and raised her voice. "Winklehurst! Over here, if you please, and bring a privacy screen with you. Captain Booth could use your assistance with a bedpan - -"

Colonel Armstrong and his plans were momentarily forgotten. In a mild state of uncomfortable panic, Booth clutched the blankets covering him and held on tight. "No, I don't need any assistance! I can handle the . . . the bedpan thing on my own!"

A faint trace of amusement glimmered in Matron's otherwise expressionless face. "Are you sure?"

Booth tugged the blankets up higher and grimaced at the sight of the shiny metal bedpan. He could already feel the cold edges biting into his backside. Winklehurst, hardly older than the now deceased Finn Abernathy, was a mottled shade of red when she handed it over, along with a heavy glass urinal. "Yea, I'm pretty sure I know how it works."

Matron was all brisk efficiency. "All right. Mind that you don't spill the contents on your bed. If you only need to use the urinal, we've found it works best if you lie on your side while voiding. Just call out when you're through and someone will retrieve it. As for you . . ."

The sympathetic smile drained quickly from Clark's face when she turned the full force of attention to him. He gulped nervously.

"It has not escaped my attention, Lieutenant Edison, that you require a great deal of care from my nurses, specifically the young and pretty ones."

Clark assumed a look of innocence that fooled no one. "I'm sorry about that, Matron. See, it's my bandages, I like to have them changed regular so they stay clean. And you know, I'm in so much pain . . ."

Matron looked down her nose at him. "Is that so. Perhaps I should assign someone to you directly. Nurse Belcher, perhaps. She's very capable. I'm sure you're familiar with her since your arrival a few days ago. She's been with the Royal Nurses Corp since the Great War. We were fortunate that she came out of retirement to work with us again."

The thought of being cared for by the veteran nurse with hands like catcher's mitts and a booming voice magnified by a bosom the size of a ship's prow, was clearly terrifying. "Uh . . . that won't be necessary."

"I thought not. Your bed is at the other end of the ward, Lieutenant. Find it. Now." As Clark obediently set to work rolling his wheelchair toward his own bed, Matron looked down at Booth again. "If I see your colonel in the ward again, Captain Booth, I'll be sure to send him over so that you can discuss your objections to his plans to ship you back to America. Until then, bedpan. Then lunch. I'll return shortly."

She dragged the privacy screen around his bed, then marched away. Booth listened to the rhythm of her shoes tapping on the floor, cursing under his breath as pain shot through his feet again when he tried to roll on his side.

Colonel or no colonel, as soon as he could walk, he was going back to his squad. He belonged with his men, not with some song and dance crowd back in the States.

.

* * *

 _._

 _The US military has an ugly history of racial separation that didn't end in WW2. The only African American pilots that flew in combat during WW2 were with the 332nd Fighter Group, the famed Tuskegee Airmen. I've taken the liberty of integrating the Eighth Air Force for the purposes of this story, and chose Dr. Edison because he's confident and bold and not above strutting when he's in the mood, all characteristics that scream "pilot" to me. #NoRegrets_


	4. A Day at the Office

Brennan's fellow boarders were more observant than she gave them credit for, as evidenced by the quiet knock on her door the next morning, and the surprise of seeing Daisy standing in the hallway.

"You missed breakfast," she said, with a glance at the pretty china plate and matching cup and saucer that rattled ever so slightly when she raised the loaded tray in her hands. "I thought you might like some toast and coffee. Mrs. Julian said it was okay to bring it up."

Brennan smiled, touched by the gesture, and stepped back. Interrupted in the middle of dressing for the important day ahead of her, she wore only a full-length white slip, along with a pair of soft-soled slippers worn protectively over a pair of precious silk stockings. "How thoughtful of you. I . . . wasn't very hungry this morning."

The explanation was a small falsehood. The truth was that she hadn't wanted to face the curiosity and probing questions of the other women, not with the wound of her failed relationship with Sully freshly reopened. She knew the sudden appearance of the handsome sailor, coupled with her return to the boarding house barely an hour later, was enough fodder for a week's worth of gossip.

She wasn't going to be allowed off the hook, though. Daisy's gift, well-meaning as it was, came with strings. She set the tray at the end of the already-made bed and sat down beside it.

"I thought that might be it. Mabel said she heard you crying half the night."

Brennan grimaced with dismay as she closed the door. Obviously, the pillows she'd used to muffle the sound of her weeping hadn't kept the noise from traveling to the bedroom next door. "I see. I'd forgotten how thin the walls are here."

Daisy's face held only sympathy. With a thin pink dressing gown wrapped around her small frame and a scarf tied over the pincurls she'd set into her hair the night before, she looked like a young girl playing house, despite the worldly air she assumed. "It's okay. We've all been there. The man who came to see you, was he your beau? Before the war, I mean?"

Brennan moved the tray to a safer place atop her dresser and picked up the cup and saucer. She took a moment to savour the fragrant aroma rising with the steam from the ink-black coffee. Along with their weekly rent, the women who boarded with Caroline Julian pooled their ration stamps for general use in the house. Not only did the two pounds of fresh meat allotted to each person per week stretch further when combined as a group, but Mrs. Julian somehow always managed to keep a stocked pantry on hand, despite the scarce supplies and constant shortages in the shops. Not for the first time, Brennan had cause to appreciate her landlady's resourcefulness.

"I suppose that's an accurate description," she said finally, nibbling on the edge of a slice of toast before sipping carefully from the hot coffee. She closed her eyes as warmth spread through her body, then sipped again. "It's been almost ten years. We met in 1935, when I was chosen for an internship program based in Marco Island, Florida. I applied to other sites studying the remains of native civilizations in Arizona and New Mexico but the university sent me to Florida instead. I was the first woman to be assigned there," she added, and shrugged when Daisy reacted with an impressed murmur. "I'm sure they expected the hardships involved with working in the Everglades to force me out of the program altogether. I was the only woman in the anthropology department, and my professors continually pushed me toward more feminine studies. But I proved them wrong." There was no denying the smug triumph in the smile that curved her lips. "I spent two years there, studying the Seminole tribe and their history with the area, and their displacement when settlers moved in. Sully captained a fishing boat in the Gulf," she said, bringing the explanation back to Daisy's original question. "We met when he brought in supplies for our camp. We became . . . close."

Daisy's eyes grew big and round when the hidden meaning beneath Brennan's explanation sunk in. Her cheeks flushed a bright pink. "Oh my gosh! You mean, you . . ."

Brennan smiled at the young woman's innocence when her voice trailed away. "Yes, we were lovers."

A titillated giggle escaped before horror crossed Daisy's face. She slapped one hand over her mouth. "And then he wouldn't marry you? What a cad! He's got some nerve showing up here after that!"

"Actually, he wanted to get married. I'm the one who said no." Brennan turned away to set the half-empty cup back on the tray. As Daisy had settled in and looked in no hurry to leave, she continued getting dressed. Facing the mirror, she removed the pins from the curls set into her own hair the night before. One-by-one, they landed with a tiny clink as she dropped them into a small glass bowl.

Daisy's avid gaze was glued to her. "But Dr. Brennan, what if you want to marry someone else one day? What will you tell your husband when he finds out that you're not a . . ." Her voice dropped to a whisper, despite the fact that she and Brennan were alone in the room. " . . . a virgin. My mother always said that men won't buy a cow if they get the milk for free."

Brennan laughed as she pulled a brush through her hair, smoothing it over the crown of her head and creating a froth of chestnut curls that sat lightly on her shoulders. She twisted the sides into rolls above her ears and pinned them in place with small, tortoise shell combs. "Milk is a commodity, Daisy. A woman is not. I have no plans to marry but if I did, I would expect my future husband to have a certain level of experience. Why wouldn't he expect the same from me?"

"You're so sophisticated." There was a trace of romanticized envy in the wistful sigh as Daisy leaned back on her hands and watched Brennan reach into the wardrobe for a smartly tailored suit in a pale shade of lemon. "Are you starting work with Captain Booth today?"

"Not quite. I'm meeting with someone at the Treasury Department. I expect that we'll discuss the parameters of the position and the goals and expectations for the project. At least I hope that's the case," Brennan mumbled, as she buttoned a white blouse over her slip, then stepped into a skirt. "I know nothing about this kind of work. I hope to receive detailed instructions."

The jacket of the suit was next; facing the mirror, she tugged at the shoulder pads until they sat in a crisp, straight line. When she reached for a bulky hat box stored on top of the wardrobe, Daisy popped up from the bed.

"You've got a crooked seam. Here, I'll help."

She was kneeling on the floor almost before the words faded from the air. There was nothing Brennan could do but stand stock-still as the small hands slid along her silk-wrapped calf, gently tugging at the fragile stocking until the dark seam running along the back of her leg was equally as straight as that of the other.

"Thank you."

Daisy scrambled back to her feet and gave Brennan an easy smile. "Oh, sure. It usually takes me three or four tries to get the seams straight. I never manage to get it right the first time! Those are real silk, aren't they? Where did you get them? I haven't been able to find new nylons for weeks, and the ones I have are full of runs!"

"They were a gift from my father. He . . . travels frequently. I was saving them for a special occasion but today seems appropriate." Brennan set the hat box on the bed and opened it, deliberately avoiding Daisy's gaze by taking more care than was strictly necessary with the hats inside as she looked for one in particular. Although she didn't quite approve of her father's black market activity, the last thing she intended to do was share that bit of information with a chatty young switchboard operator. Hoping to ward off any more questions, she drew out a white calot with a thin edge of lace netting on one side, and pinned it securely against the back of her head. "What do you think?"

Daisy was easily distracted. "Perfect! You look just like Joan Bennett!"

"Well, let's hope that's enough to impress the Treasury Department." Pearl earrings with a matching brooch pinned to one lapel, neat white gloves, and simple pumps in a rich shade of caramel completed the outfit. As Brennan applied a fresh layer of lipstick, Daisy grabbed the tray.

"I'll take this back to the kitchen so you'll have plenty of time to get to the trolley stop. Good luck, Dr. Brennan! I can't wait to find out what happens!"

Brennan looked into the mirror again. Her reflection stared back, impassive and confident. Despite the unexpectedness of the assignment and her lack of experience with the work, she was determined to succeed. She'd been jumping hurdles and bulldozing her way through every obstacle thrown in her path since entering college at the age of 17. She would conquer this new, unsolicited challenge as well. One thinly-plucked eyebrow arched high.

"I can't wait to find out what happens, either."

.

.

.

An hour later, she'd been waiting for a full thirty minutes in the small reception area of the War Finance Office. Men in uniforms that glittered with medals mixed with those in tailored suits, bustling to and fro under a haze of cigarette smoke, serenaded by the jangling, unending ring of dozens of telephones, each one of them busy busy busy with the gigantic task of paying for the vast war machine that was the United States economy. Although the federal income tax had been expanded to cover over 60% of wage earners for the first time in the nation's history, those funds were a tiny fraction of the total needed to pay for the war. Bond drives and stamp sales provided the rest, each one supported and promoted by the War Finance Committee. Posters lined every wall, some of them colorful and playful while others were dark and threatening, with exaggerated caricatures of enemy soldiers looming over frightened women and children. After half an hour spent staring at every piece of framed artwork in her line of sight, Brennan thought she had them memorized.

A tinkling laugh drew her attention across the room, where yet another group of young male staffers had found a reason to congregate at the secretary's desk. Not that Brennan was surprised. With her bright blonde hair, lush figure, and full lips painted a sultry fire engine red, the young woman drew every eye.

Brennan had also noticed that the secretary possessed a sharp, quick intelligence, at odds with the breathless voice and sexy, pin-up looks. She answered questions over the phone by rattling off numbers and statistics from memory, and while Brennan watched, cajoled information from and handed off assignments to the gaggle of admirers that clustered around her, almost without the men realizing what she was up to. She'd obviously taken the difficulties of being a woman working in a man's world, and turned them to her advantage.

The door of the large office just behind the woman's desk finally opened, and voices could be heard as the two men inside made their way out.

" . . . let me know what you hear from the B&O. They're laying new track through the Appalachians to bring more coal out, so they should have another line open in the next few months. If we can add a passenger car or two, we can get some girl singers or a crooner or two, maybe set 'em up with a marching band or something. Lotta mamas in those little towns sending their boys off to fight. They'll line up to give us their money."

The speaker, short and portly, with thinning grey hair combed ear-to-ear across a shiny pate, tugged at the straining buttons of his suit coat as he entered the reception area. When his gaze landed on the secretary, his eyes lit up.

"Whaddaya know, there's our pretty little Miss Perotta! Or should I say, Miss Pero-tatas, huh, gents? Whew, what a figure on this one!" He stepped behind her chair and squeezed her shoulders, leering over her as the other men joined in the laughter at the ribald joke. "Don't mind me, sugar, you know I'm just kidding. But if you ever want to leave ol' Andrew, you let me know, hear? I've got just the right spot for you in my office . . . on my lap!"

Perotta's smile looked more like a grimace, fixed in place as if stuck there with glue, as he guffawed over her head. "Oh, Mr. Mitchell, what a charmer you are. I couldn't leave Mr. Hacker, though. The poor man just wouldn't know what to do without me."

"I bet he wouldn't, sweetheart. Well, maybe one of these days we'll both get lucky." Mitchell's hands slid down her arms as he bent over to press his sweaty cheek against hers. Perotta's smile faltered visibly when his fingers brushed against the side of her breast. "Lucky dog," he said to Hacker, as he straightened, tugging again at his coat. "My wife picked my secretary. The woman's so ugly, we can't keep fresh milk in the office. Oh well, at least she can type. Thanks for seeing me this morning," he added. "I hope I didn't make too much of a mess of your schedule."

Hacker, whose eyes strayed repeatedly to Brennan, didn't notice Mitchell's treatment of Perotta. "No, it's fine. I'm expecting someone from the Army to talk about the tour they want to set up with the pilot who just got shot down. He must be hurt worse than the papers are saying because they're sending a doctor." He snapped his fingers as he looked at Perotta. "What's his name? Benton? Benson? Barron?"

Amusement glittered between the two women when Perotta caught Brennan's eyes. "It's Brennan, but . . ."

Mitchell interrupted with a grunt. "A doctor? He's not going to be kicking up his heels with the dancing girls. As long as we can wheel him out on stage long enough for him to say "Buy bonds!" he'll be fine. You mark my words, Andrew. The Army is trying to plant one of their own right in the middle of our shop. It's not enough that they keep asking for more money, now the brass wants to stick their hand right in the till. Watch your back." With a disgruntled shake of his head, he moved toward the door. "Don't forget to give me a shout when you hear from the railroad. Better yet," he winked, "have Miss Perotta walk over with the message."

Perotta glared at his back with enough venom to set the cheap suit on fire, then turned her ire on Hacker. "Don't even think about it!"

"Think about what?" While Perotta sent the rest of her throng of admirers packing with an ill-tempered flutter of scarlett-tipped fingers, Hacker turned his attention to Brennan. His teeth-baring smile showed his appreciation for her trim figure and the sparks of fire in her hair, highlighted by the pale yellow of her suit. "Andrew Hacker, Deputy Director for the War Finance Committee. How can I help you? Did we have an appointment? I'm sure I would have noticed a pretty lady like you showing up on my calendar."

Brennan rose smoothly to her feet and accepted the hand he offered. "I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan. General Cullen sent me."

Hacker's smile dimmed. "General . . . You're Doctor . . ." He glanced over his shoulder at Perotta, who blinked at him innocently. The news clearly flustered him. "But you're a woman."

Brennan's chin inched higher. Her grip tightened on the thick folder that she'd brought with her. "Yes, thank you. I'm aware."

The ice in her voice broke through his surprise. The high-wattage smile returned.

"Well, how about that," he exclaimed. "A lady doctor. I guess I better watch my p's and q's," he said, amused, looking again at Perotta. "If I'm not careful, one of these days you might have my job!"

Perotta propped one elbow on her desk and dropped her chin into her hand. "Don't worry, Mr. Hacker. I'm sure I could find some menial work to keep you busy."

Hacker took the biting remark as a joke and merely laughed as he guided Brennan into his office with a hand under her elbow. He closed the door as she settled herself in front of his desk, then hurried around to pull out his own chair.

Brennan cast a surreptitious glance around the room. Unlike General Cullen, whose surroundings had been spartan and plain, Andrew Hacker clearly enjoyed his comforts. The furniture was large and heavy, carved wood and glossy leather, with a sofa and low table on one side, and a glass-fronted cabinet beside the window, on top of which was a tray holding glasses and a crystal decanter filled with an amber-hued liquid. The walls, too, were a shrine to his work, lined with black and white photographs of Hacker with celebrities from Bob Hope to Bette Grable, some taken from the stage of USO shows and bond drives, and others clearly snapped at glittering parties and nightclubs.

Hacker preened a bit when he noticed her eyes linger on the pictures. He gave her another wide smile. "So . . . you're Dr. Brennan."

Brennan smiled back. It was hard not to; tall and slim, with close-cropped dark curls and pleasant, square-jawed good looks, he seemed boyish and harmless, even if a bit vain. "Yes, I am."

Hacker's expression turned serious. "I hope you didn't take what I said earlier the wrong way, about you being a lady doctor and all. I think it's great the way you girls have really pitched in for the war effort. Done your part, I mean. You're all doing so much here at home so your . . . husbands and . . . boyfriends can handle the important work of winning the war. It's just great that you're helping out. Just great." His eyes dropped none-too-subtly to her hands, searching for evidence of a ring. "Do you have a husband? Or someone special . . ."

Brennan pushed aside the image of Sully that rose in her thoughts and straightened her back. "No, I don't. Is that information germane to my qualifications for this position?"

Hacker threw up his hands in a friendly gesture. "No, no. Just being friendly, getting to know each other." He coughed self-consciously and suddenly businesslike, reached for a buff-colored file folder lying on his desk. He scanned the pages inside for a moment, then folded his hands together and rested them on the top sheet. "So, Dr. Brennan," he said, and that big, wide smile was back. "What are your qualifications to lead this bond drive?"

"I have none." Brennan crossed one ankle over the other and looked at him evenly. "I worked in the typing pool before General Cullen gave me this assignment."

Hacker blinked.

"The . . . the typing pool." With confusion wrinkling his brow, he flipped through the file again. "Is the General worried that Captain Booth might need medical care? According to the records here, his injuries aren't life threatening."

Brennan leaned forward, discreetly trying to get a better look at the pages under his hand. "I'm not a medical doctor, although I have studied the human body in great depth. I have doctorates in anthropology and kinesiology."

"Kine-what?" Clearly bewildered, his eyes flashed up to meet hers.

"Kinesiology," she repeated helpfully. "It's the science of movement. It's a fascinating subject. Did you know - -"

Hacker waved her to silence. "I don't understand what that has to do with selling war bonds."

Brennan sat back with a shrug. "Nor do I. Perhaps you should ask General Cullen."

"That won't be necessary. We can walk you through everything you need to know. I'll handle it myself." The file closed with a snap, as if to block out any further suggestion of questioning instructions from the General. Hacker slapped his hands on the desk, then pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "Two doctorates, you say?"

Brennan stood, too, as he came around his desk toward her. "Yes, that's correct."

Hacker smiled and gestured politely toward the door. "Well then, you won't have any trouble picking this up. First things first, we'll get you an office. It just so happens that there's an empty one a couple of doors down. We'll get you settled in and then we can figure it all out over lunch. How does that sound?"

Brennan didn't have a chance to answer as he shepherded her past Perotta and into the hallway just beyond, chattering the whole way.

"You know, I met Clark Gable before he left for England with the 351st . . ."


	5. The Road Home

It's hard to put your foot down when you're trapped in a hospital bed but Booth gave it his best shot. He sat as straight as the lumpy cot allowed, conscious all the while of the shabby, ill-fitting pajamas straining to stretch across his shoulders, and the stubble of dark beard shading his cheeks. Razors were in short supply at the hospital, as was everything else, but that fact didn't make him feel any less ill-kempt, especially in the presence of the impeccably dressed Colonel Milton Armstrong.

As always, the colonel looked as if he'd stepped out of one of the movies Hollywood was churning out to capitalize on the patriotic fervor sweeping the country. Of medium height, he stood trim and straight, cap tucked under the bend of one arm, with a picturesque touch of silver sweeping across the temples of his closely-trimmed dark hair. The short coat of his uniform set neatly at his waist, above khaki trousers marked by creases so sharp, they might have qualified as a battlefield weapon, too.

The dandified appearance was a lie. Ranked first in West Point's graduating class of 1915, the newly-minted young lieutenant turned ruthless ambition and three years of battlefield experience in the Great War into a steady climb up the ranks. Two years into yet another world war and Colonel Armstrong was well on his way to a general's star.

On this particular morning, however, the colonel's usual scowl was nowhere to be seen. Instead, humour gleamed in his eyes as he listened to Booth's increasingly futile attempts to avoid being shipped state-side.

"Sir, I'm fine. My feet are almost healed. Just give me another week or two and I'll be ready to fly again. I swear."

Col. Armstrong exchanged a glance with Matron, standing beside him. "Is that so."

The springs of his cot protested with a rusty squeak as Booth tried to stretch his upper torso into an even straighter line. He'd made no secret of his unwillingness to leave the war behind and now that his never-ending complaints had finally brought the colonel himself to his bedside, the whole ward listened in. Snickers of hushed laughter and a few quiet whispers reached his ears as those men too injured to move closer got a play-by-play from someone who could.

"Sir, good men are dying out there every day. I need to be in the air. I need to do what I can to help!"

"I'll tell you what, Captain. Why don't you hop on out of that bed and take a lap or two around the room. If you can do that, then we'll talk."

Frustration boiled over. Although his feet were healing as expected, even after two weeks, Booth was barely able to manage more than a few shuffling steps before the pain drove him back to bed. The thought of a stroll around the room was unfathomable . . . but so was leaving his squad to fight on without him.

"My place is with my men!" The hoarse shout echoed across the ward, silencing the whispers and laughter, and leaving a heavy cloud of tension in its wake. It was a step too far, and Booth knew it even before the colonel's eyes turned to flint. His Adam's apple jumped in his throat as he swallowed. "Sir."

The colonel's face was a mask of fury and stone. The wall of medals that covered his chest bristled with outrage. "Your place is where I say it is, Captain," he said, his lips barely moving as the words dropped into the room like blocks of ice. "You can't walk, let alone fly. Putting you back in the air would only endanger your copilot and crew. Are you so hungry to see your picture in the newspapers that you're willing to put their lives on the line?"

It was a low blow, and undeserved, but Booth knew better than to take the bait. His cheeks flushed hot beneath the grizzled shadow of beard but he held the colonel's gaze.

"No, sir."

Col. Armstrong didn't yet have his pound of flesh. "Don't let those headlines give you ideas above your rank, Captain. _Your_ men are under _my_ command, and so are you. Are we clear?"

Booth's chin rose a fraction of an inch. "Yes, sir."

That hint of stubborness didn't set well with the colonel. "Are we clear, Captain Booth?" he demanded again, spitting out every syllable like a bite of spoiled food. Even the dust mites seemed to freeze in the early-afternoon sunshine as everyone in the ward held their breath.

Booth tossed the sheet aside and, ignoring the twinge of protest from his mangled feet, scrambled out of bed to stand tall and rigid beside the narrow cot. Adding a smart salute, his eyes rose to a spot just above Colonel Armstrong's head as he barked, "Yes, sir!"

Still furious, Colonel Armstrong let him stand there. "You think you can win this war single-handed? I've got a dozen pilots fighting to take your place and you know why? Because they know that right now, you're just dead weight. You sure as hell can't fly, and until you can, the only thing you have to look forward to is twiddling your thumbs in one of those fancy houses in the country. Your government thinks you can be of more use back home. Do you know better than your commanding officers?"

Booth raised his voice to just below a shout. "No, sir!"

"I didn't think so." The colonel leaned forward until his nose was a scant inch from Booth's chin. The difference in height took nothing away from the authority and command radiating from him. "Do you think those bombs you're dropping are free? Or that someone is just going to give me a new plane to replace the one you just crashed? Those things cost money, Captain, money that comes from all those mothers and fathers and wives and sweethearts who sent their soldiers off to war two years ago and probably haven't seen them since. If Uncle Sam thinks you'll be more use drumming up war bonds and begging for nickels and dimes than sitting here on your ass until you can fly again, then that's what you'll do. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

"ARE WE CLEAR?"

Pain crawled up his legs like knives scraping against bone but nothing showed on Booth's face. Jaw set, he met Colonel Armstrong's eyes with grim resolve. "YES, SIR!"

Seconds ticked off the clock before the colonel finally stepped back. Behind him, the room took a collective breath, relaxing shoulders and spines as the commander nodded toward Booth's cot.

"Good. Now get back in bed before your feet start bleeding again." He shook his head as Booth sat down and carefully stretched out his legs. "Dammit, Captain, haven't you had enough of the war yet? Hell, you're lucky to be alive. You're the last of the Eagle Squadron still walking. Your number should have been called a long time ago."

Booth flinched as the brutal words drew a reaction that the torment of his damaged feet hadn't. Memories flashed by, bringing up the faces of the young men who'd gone with him to Canada in early 1940, ignoring the official neutrality of the United States in order to travel from there to Britain to join the fight against the Germans. The brash certainty of their own immortality crashed headlong into the reality of the Blitz, with the days marked by dogfights over the English Channel and the nights bursting with bombs exploding in the darkness. He didn't need the colonel's reminder that he was the last of the three famed squadrons formed under Charles Sweeny. The weight of the others' sacrifice lay heavy on his shoulders.

Colonel Armstrong was no stranger to the nightmarish images he saw flickering behind Booth's eyes. He sighed and grabbed a straight-backed chair sitting at the end of the cot. He swung it around backward before straddling the seat with his forearms folded across the back.

"Don't be a damn fool, Booth. Go home. You've earned it. There's nothing for you to do here until you're cleared to fly again. The hospital ship sails next Wednesday and you will be on it." The brusque words held no heat but the order was no less definite. "Find yourself a little nurse that's up for some kiss and tickle and enjoy the crossing. I'm sure you can manage that, even with bad feet."

The ribald joke did nothing to assuage the bitterness Booth felt at being forced to return to the States. It didn't help that he had no fondness for ocean voyages. His trip from Canada in 1940 had been made by plane, in short, hopscotching jaunts from Newfoundland to Greenland, then to Iceland and Wales before ending in England. In his eyes, the prospect of being confined to a floating target for a week was nothing to look forward to.

"If we don't end up at the bottom of the ocean, sir," he grumbled. The colonel only raised an eyebrow.

"This isn't 1941, Captain. Mr. Hitler doesn't own the Atlantic anymore, we do. We haven't lost a hospital ship in six months. You'll be part of a convoy, as is standard practice. If there's a lost u-boat lurking around, you can be sure it will be spotted on radar and sunk. If you're smart, you'll find a way up on deck to watch the waves pop to the surface when it blows. It's supposed to be good luck, something like a nautical four-leaf clover."

Booth said nothing. It wasn't good luck, he thought, for the men trapped in the underwater coffin.

Colonel Armstrong ignored the disgruntled frown. "Once you make land, the infirmary in New York will take over. They'll look you over, maybe keep you for a day or two, then send you home. You'll stay there until someone from Washington collects you. Make the most of your time, Captain. Enjoy your family. You got a girl?" When Booth merely grimaced and shook his head, the colonel barked out a laugh. "Well, get one. Hell, son, get two. Live a little for the rest of us. Before you know it, you'll be knee-deep in starlets. A man could get used to that kind of life."

"I want to be here, sir," Booth said gravely. "In the air, with my men."

"The United States Army doesn't care what you want, Captain. If you didn't learn that lesson before, you will now." With their conversation over, the colonel got to his feet and moved the chair back to its original position. He spared one last glance at Booth. "Don't worry, there will be plenty of war left when you get back. Trust me."

He returned Booth's salute with one of his own, then pivoted on one foot and walked away.

Defeat was a bitter pill to swallow. Over the sour taste in his mouth, Booth tracked the colonel's path out of the ward, mocked by the efficient clip of his shoes against the wooden floor. Beyond the walls of the hospital, people were dying, victims of a madman bent on world domination . . . and he was headed home to stand on a stage and wave at a crowd. Eyes closed, he let his head fall with a thump against the wall behind his bed.

With no other recourse, Wednesday evening found him hobbling up to the deck of the hospital ship, awkward on heavy wooden crutches but thankful to be more mobile than he'd been since he'd climbed into the cockpit of his last, ill-fated flight. Finally shedding the pajamas that marked him as a patient, he wore the usual barracks garb in lightweight cotton khaki and the uniform, combined with the leather flight jacket that marked him as a pilot, made him feel almost normal again.

That is, if normal meant standing on the deck of a ship miles out to sea. Night had fallen and with lights forbidden for safety's sake, there was nothing to see but the ripple of moonlight sliding across the water and an endless sky filled with millions of stars.

The creak of a metal door opening behind him warned Booth that he wasn't alone. He remained silent as the soft clip of footsteps approached. From the corner of his eye, he registered a thin shoulder in a regulation Army jacket, then a cloud of cigarette smoke floated in front of his face.

"Standing out here, you could almost believe there's no such thing as a war going on."

Booth glanced at his companion. The weight loss obvious by the too-large uniform hanging off his skeletal frame had carved the patrician features of his face into fine relief. Still, the remnants of blonde good looks were there, in the square jawline and the one bright blue eye not covered by the large bandage wrapped at an angle around his head.

"From the looks of us, I'd say we both know better."

"Roger that." A rueful smile tugged at the stranger's lips before he took another drag from his cigarette. Smoke curled out of his nose and mouth. "Major Hayes Flynn, OSS."

Booth raised an eyebrow at the mention of the intelligence service that some considered little better than spies. "Are you allowed to tell me that?"

"If I couldn't tell you, I wouldn't." With one arm folded on the railing, Flynn shrugged and stared out across the water. "You're Captain Seeley Booth, age 36, Eighth Army Air Force. Prior to that, you served under British Colonel Charles Sweeny in the 71st RAF Eagle Squadron. Before being recruited by Colonel Sweeny . . . illegally, I might add," he drawled, still without looking at Booth, "you were a pilot with the U.S. Air Mail Service." He did meet Booth's eyes then, unperturbed by the coldness of the icy gaze. "There's a file on you. Want me to go on?"

Booth's mouth twisted as if he'd tasted something foul. "I don't think I appreciate my government having a file on me."

Flynn sent the stump of his cigarette flying into the ocean with a flick of his fingers. "Technically, you gave up your citizenship when you went to Canada with the intention of violating the Neutrality Act of 1939. And with a name like yours . . ."

Booth ignored the dig at his ancestry with the ease of long practice. "We were told our citizenship was restored when we transferred back to the Army after Pearl Harbour."

"Like you said, there's a war on." Flynn tapped his forehead with one finger in a mocking salute. "Your government appreciates your service."

Anger swept through Booth as he remembered the tongue-lashing he'd suffered from Colonel Armstrong when he balked at going home. "Is that what all this is about? I'm being set up? For what? To face a court-martial for joining the war in Europe when those cowards in Congress weren't willing to get their hands dirty yet? If that's why I'm here then you can just - -"

Flynn threw up his hands with a laugh. "Whoa, Captain. No one said anything like that. I know who you are because it's my job to know, but my being here with you right now is just a coincidence. Yeah," he said, when Booth snorted. "I know, but occasionally, coincidence actually happens. I've been in France, in Rouan, for the past eight months, working with the resistance. Turns out, there was a traitor in our group and, well . . ." One finger touched the bandage wrapped around his head. "As you can see, I just barely managed to get out."

Booth studied his profile as Flynn stared out across the water. The red, angry scarring visible around the edges of the bandage added unspoken layers to the major's story. His anger dissipated.

"Did you figure out who the traitor was?"

Flynn pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapped it casually against his palm, nudging one free. After lighting it, he studied the burning tip for a moment, then stuck the unfiltered end between his lips.

"Yeah."

The cold, flat look in his eyes discouraged further questions. Booth got the hint and remained silent. He didn't need specifics to know that the man's fate probably hadn't been pleasant.

"So, what's your story?" Flynn nodded toward the thick padding wrapped around Booth's feet, deliberately changing the subject. "I heard about your plane going down but I didn't know you'd got yourself a million dollar wound. They're shipping you stateside, huh? Is this the end of the war for you?"

Booth was quick to disabuse him of that notion. "No, I'm going back as soon as they let me but until the skin on my feet grows back, I've been reassigned." He grimaced. "They're sending me out with the dog and pony show to sell bonds. Do you believe that?"

Flynn raised a skeptical eyebrow. "No, I don't. Look," he added, when Booth shot him a suspicious glare. "Like I said, I've been underground for a long time so I don't know what's happening back at HQ but that story doesn't make sense. You've been in the war since 1940. You know the combat zone - hell, you've flown over it so many times, you could probably draw new maps. The brass is not going to waste all that knowledge while you learn to tap dance, trust me."

Booth was even more confused, especially given the scene at his bedside at the hospital. "If that's the case, why didn't Colonel Armstrong just say so?"

"He may not know any different," Flynn shrugged. "Probably doesn't. That's how it works, one hand keeping secrets from the other hand. I'm just saying, if you don't get a tap on the shoulder while you're schmoozing with Betty Grable, I'll eat my hat."

Booth thought about it for a minute. He had no experience in spycraft but the idea was a lot more palatable than simply touring with a glorified Vaudeville show. He grinned rakishly. "As long as it's not Rita Hayworth they're interrupting."

Flynn let out a high-pitched wolf-whistle. "Redheads. Now that's a risk worth taking."

The two men laughed in a moment of shared camaraderie before Flynn tossed his cigarette into the black sea.

"Come on," he said. "Let's see if we can find a decent cup of coffee in the mess."

Booth settled the crutches beneath his armpits and moved gingerly in the direction of the doorway. "I'm not getting my hopes up."

"Roger that."

.

.

Flynn proved to be an easy, affable companion for the rest of the voyage. He, too, was headed home on medical leave but expected to find orders from DC waiting for him because, he said with grim humour, he could still ride a desk even with just one good eye. Aided by the bottle of contraband Irish whiskey he'd managed to smuggle in with his belongings, he and Booth swapped stories of battles won and friends lost, and of their lives before the war. Unwilling to tempt fate, they left talk of life after the war unspoken. There would be enough time to plan for the future if they survived long enough to have one.

When the ship docked in New York, they spent a night in a local hospital that had been commandeered by the military, then boarded trains the next day with the rest of the ambulatory patients being sent home. Booth's relatively brief ride to Philadelphia meant a much shorter journey than Flynn's overnight trip to St. Paul, Minnesota. On a platform swarming with hundreds of civilians and an equal number of soldiers and sailors in every variety of uniform, the two men shook hands for the last time.

"Don't forget to say hello to Rita for me," Flynn quipped.

"Don't forget to put in a good word for me about that tap on the shoulder."

The train was crowded but able-bodied passengers sitting near the entrance hurried to offer their seats to the injured soldiers boarding at the stop. Booth hesitated for a moment when a young boy jumped up with a shout.

"Here you go, mister. You can have my seat!"

When the boy's mother smiled proudly at her son's show of patriotism, Booth nodded and lowered himself into the seat beside her, juggling his crutches awkwardly out of the way. "Thanks, son. Ma'am."

"Mrs. Fletcher," she said, introducing herself as the boy scrambled onto her lap. "And this is Roger. Say hello, Roger."

The little boy's fascinated gaze was glued to Booth. "Are you a soldier? My daddy is a soldier."

"Your father is a sailor, Roger," Mrs. Fletcher corrected gently. "He's on the _USS_ _Arkansas_ , remember?"

"Well, we all work for Uncle Sam." Booth reached out with a quick hand to steady the child when the jostling of the train moving forward threatened to topple him to the floor. "My brother is a sailor, too. He serves on the _Enterprise._ "

More knowledgeable than her son of the sea battles that had taken place since Pearl Harbor, Mrs. Fletcher's eyes grew wide. "Oh my. Was he there last summer? Such awful stories in the papers . . ."

Booth, too, had followed the reports from the battle of Midway, scouring the papers and casualty lists for any hint of news. "He was there. Jared isn't much of a letter writer," he said with a quirk of his lips, "but he managed to get word out after the battle that he was okay."

"Oh, thank goodness. So many of our young men -" She broke off with a glance at the top of her son's head. "Well, this war can't end soon enough for me."

Roger had been studying Booth's feet, trying to make sense of the boots the military hospital had cut up to accommodate the thick bandages required to protect his tender soles. "What did you do to your feet, mister? Did you break both of 'em?"

Mrs. Fletcher's cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. "Roger! Hush now. It's not polite to ask questions like that!"

Booth was unperturbed by the youngster's curiosity and chucked him lightly beneath the chin. "It's all right. No, they're not broken. My plane caught fire while I was trying to land and I didn't jump out fast enough. I guess you could say that my boots got a little too hot."

That was enough to enthrall the little boy. "Wow. Can I see?"

"Roger!"

Booth laughed, drowning out Mrs. Fletcher's horrified gasp, and felt himself relax for the first time since he'd crossed the border into Canada three years ago. Outside the windows, factories belching smoke into the air and apartment buildings connected by laundry fluttering in the warm breeze became crops growing in newly planted fields, and green hills studded with the bright colours of spring flowers. Even Roger, with his bright eyes and plump, round cheeks, was a lifetime away from the pinched, hungry look of the children he'd seen around the barracks.

For a brief moment, the war felt like a nightmare from which he'd finally woken. There were no armies marching down the streets, no tanks coming over the horizon, no shells of burned-out homes marking once vibrant towns. A glance over his shoulder caught other soldiers staring out the windows with the same sense of surreal bemusement. Peace, it seemed, would be as much an adjustment as battle.

The darkness and heavy weight of war landed again when he said goodbye to Roger and his mother and disembarked in Philadelphia. As he waited for his duffel to come off the baggage car, his gaze skimmed a group of fresh recruits waiting to board an outbound train. They looked barely older than young Roger, with freshly shorn hair and uniforms so new, the fold creases still showed. His jaw clenched as he watched them jostle each other in teasing camaraderie, with forced bravado masquerading as bravery.

He forced himself to look away from their painful innocence just as a voice from behind called out his name.

"Seeley! Over here, son! Seeley!"

The sandpaper voice raised a lump in his throat even before the old man pushed his way through the crowd. Tears blurred his vision as he watched his grandfather approach. A little more stooped, perhaps, his white hair a bit thinner, but the arms that pulled him into a fast, hard embrace were as instantly familiar as the faded blue eyes behind their own shimmer of tears. Only the frailty of the old bones within his embrace was new. Booth tightened his hold carefully and closed his eyes.

"Pops."


	6. A Friend in Need

Brennan took a step back and cast a critical eye over the map of the United States that hung on the wall of her office behind her desk. Railroad lines crossed the dotted outlines of the 48 states, marked along various routes by a dozen or so round wooden pegs in a bright shade of red. Frowning, she picked up the notepad where she'd listed the potential sites and jotted down notes in a neat, tidy hand.

"Looking good up there! You're really nailing down the campaign stops, aren't you? Excellent work, Temperance."

Brennan finished the thought she was getting onto paper before she looked up at Andrew Hacker. His bright smile was infectious, even if he did remind her of an overly-eager puppy.

"Thank you, but nothing is final yet. Those locations are just the suggestions I've received from the Secretary's office."

Hacker's smile didn't dim. Caught off guard admiring the pretty picture she made in a dress of robin's egg blue with military-style epaulettes decorating the padded shoulders, it was a moment before Brennan's words registered. He immediately assumed a serious expression and made a show of studying the map as he rocked back on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back. "Hmmm. Yes, I can see that. It looks like they've got all the usual places covered. Boston. Philadelphia. Baltimore, Chicago . . ."

Brennan stared at the map, too. Far less pleased with the sites marked by the red pegs, she shook her head. "Yes, the major cities are there but I don't agree with that approach. I believe that our tour would be more successful if we bypassed the most commonly-visited locations and concentrated instead on other areas."

Hacker covered up his surprise with another big smile. "I don't understand. You want to skip the largest cities on the east coast?"

Brennan walked back to her desk; putting the notebook aside, she searched through a handful of files stacked neatly on the corner and plucked one out. After opening it, she offered it to Hacker.

"Look. There have been four major bond drives in Chicago in the last year. Baltimore has hosted two in the last six months, Philadelphia three. There have been six in Boston just in the last eight months!"

"Well, that's where the money is," Hacker said, in the tone of one pointing out the obvious as he skimmed through the pages of the file.

"There's a concentration of wealth in those cities," Brennan admitted reluctantly, "but every community in this country has sent sons off to war. In bypassing smaller cities and towns, we ignore those sources of funds. I believe those families would eagerly contribute, if we give them an opportunity. Let me show you something . . ."

Brennan moved again, eagerness and enthusiasm ringing with the clip of her heels as she crossed the floor and pulled down a thick bound volume laying on top of a filing cabinet. As long as her arm and covered in heavy green baize, the book made an audible _thump_ when she dropped it on her desk.

"This is the 1930 census . . ." she began.

Hacker gaped at her. "You got a copy of the census?"

"I'll return it when I'm done," Brennan shrugged. She folded back the cover to reveal the tops of four brass pins driven through the pages to hold them together, and thumbed through until she reached the loose slips of paper she'd stuck in as bookmarks. "Here. Milwaukee, Wisconsin recorded a population of over 570,000 people. That's not a small town, it's just not as large as Boston or Philadelphia. Atlanta, Georgia has a population of almost 300,000. Indianapolis, Indiana, 365,000. Akron, Ohio has - -"

Hacker tossed aside the folder she'd given him and cut her off with a laugh. "You want to go to Akron? Nobody wants to go to Akron."

Brennan's chin inched higher at the cavalier dismissal. "My point is that those populations are underserved by events such as the tour I've been asked to organize. We should take advantage of that and offer these families the chance to donate to the war effort. They will be eager to accept, I'm sure of it."

Hacker looked away, unwilling to meet the challenge of her direct gaze. "I . . . I don't know," he hemmed. "I mean, I thought we were looking for more of a big show with lots of big names. We're not going to get any real stars to come out to Akron, or what was it you said? Milwaukee?"

Brennan smiled with a hint of smugness. "Spencer Tracy is from Milwaukee. Irene Dunn is from Louisville, Kentucky. I'm sure I could find other movie stars or entertainers who left small towns and who might consider it their civic duty to return home, especially if it would benefit the troops. And if I can't, we could invite marching bands from the local schools, and coordinate tour dates with drives for scrap metal or rubber. There are a variety of ways to drive attendance and interest."

Hacker looked somewhat bemused under the force of her arguments. "You've really given this some thought, haven't you?"

Brennan shrugged off the past month of research and hard work with casual ease. Despite her initial misgivings, once she knew the assignment was settled, she'd thrown herself into it with her usual meticulous approach and attention to detail.

"Of course. I've never taken on a task at which I didn't succeed."

His admiration was on full display as Hacker leaned one hip against her desk and let his gaze skim over her trim form. "Well, I gotta say, I'm impressed. We obviously have the right man - I mean woman - for the job. Why don't we talk about it some more over dinner tonight? I'll pick you up at 8:00."

Brennan sighed inwardly. It wasn't the first time he'd asked her on a date. She'd even accepted once, and had a pleasant, if uninspiring, evening. She wasn't interested in anything more, however, not with a world war raging and so many of her own personal goals still out of reach. Conscious of the need to remain cordial with the man who was essentially her immediate superior, she had tried as gently as possible to discourage his interest, without success. Now, her face carefully blank, she sat down behind her desk and reached for the notepad again.

"No, thank you."

Hacker didn't take the hint. "Oh, is that too late? How about 7:00?"

Brennan was saved from answering when Perotta popped into her doorway.

"Mr. Hacker? The Secretary is on line one for you."

He swiveled around immediately and hurried out. "For me? Has he been waiting long? Why didn't you tell me sooner!"

When his office door clicked shut behind him, Perotta turned back to see Brennan drop her head into her hands. "He is definitely sweet on you. Have you decided what you're going to do about it?"

The top of Brennan's head moved back and forth as she shook her head. "I've intimated my disinterest but - -"

Perotta laughed. "You've what your what? Honey, if I don't understand those big words, he sure isn't going to. You're going to have to can the gobbledygook and just tell him straight out. He's a nice guy so he'll probably give you the puppy dog eyes for a few days but then he'll get over it and stop hounding your office."

Brennan looked up hopefully. She and Perotta had developed a friendly rapport over the past few weeks and she knew that the curvy blonde, dressed for the day in a shade of red that exactly matched the slash of color on her lips, had more experience with men than she did. "Will he?"

"Probably. Well, maybe. Let's hope for the best, anyway. But that won't stop the rest of them, you know. You're a looker and there's a whole town filled with soldiers waiting to camp out on your doorstep." Perotta pulled a sympathetic face as Brennan groaned loudly, then let the subject drop in favor of the map behind Brennan's desk. "I heard what you said about stopping in some of the smaller cities. Just so you know, I think you're right."

Brennan immediately forgot all about Hacker and the unnamed hordes of single men waiting to take his place. She had learned to respect the sharp intelligence that lay beneath the other woman's glossy facade and was instantly alert. "You do?"

"Sure," Perotta nodded. She edged a hip against Brennan's desk, too, but this time the effect was friendly - - and welcome. "I'm from Independence, Missouri and, you know, we're not the biggest place around but we're not small potatoes, either. Ginger Rogers grew up three streets over from my house and let me tell you, when she comes back, it's a big deal. And just because we're not Kansas City or St. Louis, doesn't mean we can't do our part. You just bring your show over to us and you'll see."

Brennan was writing as fast as she could. "Ginger Rogers, you say."

"Yes, and she would be a heck of a draw if you could get her. People would come from all over the state to see her."

"I'm sure they would."

Perotta straightened when the phone at her own desk began to ring. "Anyway, you just keep up the good work. It's really good to see one of us get a chance like this. We're all rooting for you."

Brennan looked up in surprise. Her experience in the typing pool had not been one of friendly camaraderie within a group of women. "You are? Why?"

Perotta smiled. "How often does a woman get a chance like this? If you can make this tour a success, then maybe the bosses upstairs will realize that women can do more than type and make coffee." She rolled her eyes when the phone rang again and scurried out, calling back over her shoulder. "And answer phones."

The words hung in Brennan's mind for the rest of the day, nibbling at the edges of thought as she continued to put together a plan for the bond drive that had little resemblance to the one proposed by the staff in the Secretary's office. She spent the afternoon in the reading room of the newly-finished John Adams Building of the Library of Congress, reading newspapers sent in from cities and towns all over the country. More than once, she caught her attention wandering, an uncharacteristic lapse of focus for a woman who'd made a career out of studying.

On the streetcar home, she stared out the window, blind to the scenery rushing by as her body swayed with the jostling of the road. Over a decade of academic study lay behind her, a period hampered, so she had always believed, by a dearth of female mentors available to guide and counsel. Her professors and advisors had always scoffed when she'd complained, but it was also they who had tried to steer her out of the sciences and into softer, more feminine (by their definition) pursuits. How much further ahead would she be now, she wondered, if women were encouraged to excel in the same fields offered to men? The idea that what she'd considered a frivolous excursion into show business and fundraising might offer her a chance to fill that role herself, that women who sought a career instead of a wedding ring might look to her for inspiration, lit a spark she hadn't realized was hiding inside.

Deep in thought, Brennan was three blocks away before she realized that she'd missed her usual stop. She tugged at the cord that signaled a request to stop, and hurried off the streetcar, thankful that mild weather made for an easy walk back.

She was just passing in front of the local butcher when she heard sounds of an altercation coming from the alley behind it.

"Go home, Jap! We don't want your kind here!" Despite the youth obvious in the high pitch, the young boy's voice was ugly with malice.

A sycophantic companion chimed in. "Yea, go home!"

"Stop that! And give me that back!"

Brennan's slowing steps came to a complete halt. The faint idea of going into the butcher's shop for help fled altogether when she heard a woman cry out. She ran into the alley herself.

The woman was young, perhaps a year or so younger than Brennan, with sleek dark hair flowing across her shoulders under a round-brimmed straw hat. Tall and slender, she was somewhat shockingly dressed in pleated trousers and a fitted jacket. She was also frightened, a fact that was obvious when she looked over her shoulder at the sound of Brennan's approach. Tears glittered in her dark eyes.

Brennan took in the scene at a glance, scanning the woman's face, and the leather suitcase lying open at her feet, and the two boys gleefully stomping the clothes spilling out of it, and was instantly incensed.

"What's going on here?" she demanded. Recognizing two boys from the neighborhood, she marched up and pulled both of them away from the suitcase with a vice-like grip on their bony shoulders. "Howie, what are you doing? Does your mother know where you are right now?"

He tried without success to shake off her hand. "We found ourselves a Jap spy, Miss Brennan. Let me go so we can go get the police!"

"Yea, she probably stole all that," the other boy agreed, his head bobbing up and down eagerly. "My brother says all Japs are yellow thieves."

Brennan tightened her hold on the squirming boys. "Don't be ridiculous. Those are obviously her things. And she's not Japanese, she's . . ." She looked up and quickly scanned the woman's features again. ". . . Chinese. You have Chinese ancestry, yes?"

Taken aback, the woman stammered. "What . . . How . . . Well, yes, actually."

Brennan turned back to the boys in triumph. "You see? She's Chinese, not Japanese. And since China is also at war with Japan, they're allies with the United States. Although," she frowned, "that is a vast oversimplification of hundreds of years of conflict between the two regions so . . ." She noticed the boys staring at her with their mouths hanging open and shook her head. "Never mind. This woman is not our enemy. Apologize, right now."

She waited, tapping one foot impatiently, while the red-faced boys ground the toes of their shoes into the dirt and mumbled half-hearted apologies. When her hold loosened, they took off running. Raising her voice, she yelled at their rapidly disappearing backs. "Howard Epps, you be sure to tell your mother that I want a word with her!"

She turned back to find the woman trying to shake off the dirt on her belongings before folding them back into her suitcase.

"I apologize for the boys' behavior," Brennan murmured as she bent to help. "I'm afraid that the war has exposed a current of xenophobia in society that's particularly unpleasant."

"Yea, I've noticed." The woman closed the latches on the suitcase and straightened. Somewhat guarded, she looked at Brennan curiously. "How did you know that I'm Chinese?"

"I made a judgment on the shape of your orbital cavity," Brennan replied, skimming the tip of one finger just below her own eye, "and I estimated the distance between your zygomatic bones."

The woman blinked rapidly. "My what?"

Brennan waved one hand airily. "It doesn't matter. It's an inexact method of determining ethnicity anyway, especially between people who share certain skeletal similarities. Besides, I would need to see your bones denuded of flesh in order to take exact measurements."

The woman closed her gaping mouth with a click of her teeth. "I don't know what that means but I don't like the sound of it. Thank you for stepping in, though. I appreciate it." She held out one hand. "Angela Montenegro."

Brennan clasped it firmly. "Temperance Brennan. You're welcome."

"Temperance?" Angela grimaced playfully. "Are you Carrie Nation's granddaughter?"

The joke flew over Brennan's head. "No, we aren't related."

Angela's eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter at the serious reply. "Okay. Well, Temperance is kind of a mouthful. Do you have a middle name, or a nickname?"

Brennan shook her head. "No, I'm just Temperance."

"Okay, Brennan it is." With her suitcase clasped in front of her, Angela looked toward the street at the end of the alley. "I think I remember passing a little cafe not too far from here. Can I buy you a cup of coffee or something, as a thank you for helping me? I feel like I owe you."

"I know the place you mean," Brennan nodded, "but you don't owe me anything. I would, however, be happy to join you for coffee. Thank you."

As they headed toward the street, Angela glanced over.

"So, what you said before, about zygote bones and cavity orbits or whatever. How do you know about that stuff? Are you a doctor or a teacher or something?"

"Yes, I'm a doctor of anthropology. It's the study of human behavior," Brennan explained, when Angela frowned. "Our history and development, why we behave as we do, how society functions or why it fails to function."

The explanation only created more questions for Angela. "What does that have to do with zygote bones?"

"Zygomatic bones. They're here." Brennan touched the cheekbones on her own face. "I actually came to Washington DC to study forensic anthropology at Georgetown University, but the program was shut down because of the war." Without waiting for Angela to ask, she plowed on eagerly. "Oh, it's a fascinating new field. It's the study of human remains in relation to how they died. For instance, by applying scientific analysis, we could look at the skeletal remains found in Pompeii and determine exactly how those people died."

Angela stopped just outside the door of the cafe. "Weren't they buried when a volcano erupted?"

"Ah, but were they?" Brennan's smile was almost gleeful. "Did they die because they were buried under volcanic ash, or did they suffocate due to the smoke and gas and toxic fumes released by the volcano? Or were they burned by fires caused by the eruption? With study and analysis, we could finally know the whole truth of what happened to them."

"Or we could just say they died when a volcano erupted," Angela said dryly, finally reaching for the door of the cafe. When the patrons inside looked up and immediately fell silent, she read the suspicion in their icy stares and leaned in close to Brennan. "Maybe you should mention my bone structure again, really loud."

Brennan's solution was to ignore everyone as she led the way to an unoccupied table set with cups and saucers. When Angela had carefully stowed her suitcase under the table, it was her turn to be curious. "What brings you to Washington? Do you have family here? Friends?"

They turned their cups upright when the waitress appeared with a pot of steaming coffee, and leaned back as she filled their cups. "I'm sort of traveling in advance of my father. He has a band, the Billy Gibbons Swing Orchestra. Do you know it?"

Angela spoke slightly louder than necessary, a ploy that paid off when heads bent and whispers rose at nearby tables. Brennan noticed, and raised her cup in a discrete salute before taking a careful sip.

"I haven't been fortunate enough to see them play but I've heard of them. Aren't they supposed to perform at the Hamilton soon?" Andrew Hacker had mentioned the upcoming performance in one of the invitations that Brennan had turned down.

"Mmm hmm. We're headlining there for a month. Dad's finishing up at the Savoy in New York right now, but since we're supposed to open at the Hamilton in two weeks, I came ahead to make sure everything was ready. Check on the hotel reservations for the band, that kind of thing. But when I got to the hotel . . ." She grimaced as her fingers fluttered vaguely over her face.

Brennan read the gesture for what it was. "They thought you were Japanese."

"Let's just say the desk clerks weren't experts on bone structure," Angela said wryly. "They wouldn't even talk to me, or listen to anything I had to say, especially when one of the maids started crying about a brother who died at Guadalcanal. The next hotel I tried was pretty much the same story, so I just jumped on the first streetcar that passed and got off when I saw a sign for a boarding house. That's when I ran into those kids."

"I'm sorry that happened to you," Brennan said, covering Angela's hand with her own in a gesture of support. "Do you always have that much trouble when you travel ahead of your father's band?"

"I'm not usually the advance guy," Angela admitted. "But Jerry has the flu and the last time we just showed up somewhere, the whole band ended up sleeping in the dressing rooms. So, here I am," she sighed. "Is there a Chinatown in DC? Maybe I could find someplace to stay there."

Brennan thought for a moment. "Yes, I believe there's a thriving community of immigrants on H Street but before you go all the way down there, why don't you come home with me? There are no vacancies in my rooming house but the landlady, Mrs. Julian, has lived here all her life. She may have another solution."

"I'm desperate enough to take you up on that offer," Angela said gratefully. "I still have to check in with management at the Hamilton, too - - if they let me through the door, that is."

"I'll go with you," Brennan offered, surprising even herself with the impulsive overture. Without hesitation, she volunteered Hacker, too. "And if they won't listen to either of us, then I'm sure my boss will help."

With twilight falling outside, Angela left some coins on the table and they walked out into the night. Comfortable with each other now, the two women kept up a steady stream of chatter that lasted until Brennan pointed out the steps of the boarding house.

They opened the door to the sound of a woman weeping, and hushed murmurs of comfort. Brennan stopped in the doorway of the ladies parlour and looked at the huddle of women around the sofa.

"Is something wrong? What's happened?"

Heads turned. More than one set of eyes slid past Brennan and narrowed on Angela.

"I'm Chinese," she said, quickly pointing at Brennan. "Ask her about my bone structure."

Daisy popped up from the sofa and herded Brennan and Angela out into the foyer, closing the door to the parlour behind her. She'd been crying, too, and her face was red and splotchy.

"Oh, Dr. Brennan, it's awful. It's Mabel's sister's fiance, the one who's in Africa?" She didn't wait for Brennan to mentally sort through what she knew of her fellow boarders, but looked furtively over her shoulder and lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. "He got hurt really bad. They said he lost a leg!"

"Oh, no. How awful."

"I know. Mabel's father called her today, long distance! All the way from Omaha, can you imagine!" Daisy's sadness quickly gave way to amazement. She pointed to the clunky black phone sitting on a small table in the hallway. "She was talking to him on that phone right there, and I could hear his voice all the way in the dining room. He said that Mabel had to come home." The sadness was back on her face. "He said that her sister will need help taking care of her fiance after they get married, so Mabel has to come home and help."

Brennan shot a confused look at Angela, who appeared just as befuddled. "I don't understand. Mabel's sister is going to marry her injured fiancee, so Mabel has to go home? What about her life here? What about her job, and her friends?"

Daisy shrugged. "Her father said that she has to come home. She's leaving on the 8:30 train tomorrow morning."

In unison, the three women looked toward the ladies parlour as the sound of crying grew louder. Brennan glanced briefly at Angela.

"Daisy, do you know if Mrs. Julian has a new tenant for Mabel's room yet?"


	7. Bases Loaded

Meeting Angela turned out to be a stroke of good fortune in more ways than one.

First, she was like no one Brennan had known before. Forthright and honest, her dry wit and somewhat scathing sense of humour spared no one, and respected no inflated ego. Used to Daisy's hero-worship or a combination of envy and suspicion from other women, Brennan found conversation with Angela refreshingly simple . . . even when she was the focus of her acerbic banter.

After a closed-door interview that lasted more than thirty minutes, Caroline Julian agreed to rent Mabel's soon-to-be-vacated room to Angela for the next six weeks, for $4.25 a week, plus ration coupons for food items. Noticing Angela's hesitation at the cost, Brennan quickly pointed out that the rate included breakfast and dinner, Monday through Saturday, and a noon-hour meal on Sunday. Angela somewhat grudgingly accepted, and opened her purse to pay a week's rent in advance. With no where else to go, she also accepted Caroline's offer of the sofa in the ladies parlour for that night . . . a decision which she soon regretted.

Shortly after midnight, Brennan woke to the sound of fingers tapping lightly on her door, followed in seconds by the futile rattling of the locked handle. When the knock came again, she tossed the covers aside and padded across the room. Angela's yawning face appeared in the gap when she cracked open the door.

"If I spend another minute on that sofa, I'm not going to be able to walk for a week. Mind if I bunk with you for the night?"

She was already inside the room before Brennan found her voice. She looked at the long, narrow single bed. "I don't think . . ."

Yawning again, Angela tossed her pillow at the foot of the bed. "It will be fine, we'll just sleep head to toe. I have to double-up sometimes with the backup singers and I've only been kicked in the head once."

While Brennan was still frozen in place beside the open door, Angela switched on the lamp on the bedside table and sat down, looking around with open curiosity at the studiously neat surroundings.

"You know," she grinned, "I just knew that you'd be one of those 'everything in its place' kind of girls."

Brennan finally closed the door and stood in front of it, self-consciously checking the scarf tied around the pin curls set into her hair, then pleating the thin material of her nightgown between her fingers. Even though it was the middle of the night, she felt positively dowdy compared to the fashionable cut of Angela's wide-legged pajamas. Unbelievably, they even appeared to be made from silk.

"I've found that the first step in using limited space efficiently is to keep it tidy."

"I suppose. Of course, I live out of a suitcase, so . . ." Angela braced her hands behind her and leaned back. "My room is next door, right? Is it like this one? I didn't want to ask for a look inside with all the crying going on."

Brennan finally left the doorway in favor of the chair at her small desk. "Yes, most of the rooms are similar in size. The one at the end of the hallway has a window overlooking the street."

"A window would be nice."

"I believe Mrs. Julian charges one dollar more a week for that room because of the window."

"I can do without a window."

"The furniture is standard across the rooms, too. Well, except for the desk," Brennan added, running a hand over the corner of the wood as fondly as if the piece was an old friend. "I purchased this for myself so you won't have one in your room."

"I've never met anyone who had their own typewriter before," Angela said, covering up another big yawn. "I thought you said you worked at the Treasury. Do you take in extra typing or something?"

"No. I'm . . . I'm writing a book." Brennan's shoulders squared defensively as the secret poured out in a rush. One hand spread out across the front drawer, as if to protect the precious manuscript stored inside.

Angela's reaction surprised her. She sat up straight, all traces of sleepiness gone. "Really? How exciting! I've never met anyone who wrote a book before either! What's it about?"

Brennan smiled as relief coursed through her at Angela's easy acceptance. She leaned forward, eager now to share more. "It's about a woman who solves crimes. Murders, to be precise."

"Oh." Angela looked faintly disappointed. "Like Miss Marple."

Brennan was not pleased with the comparison. "Miss Marple? No, not at all - -"

"Have you read _The Body in the Library_?" Angela interrupted. "Agatha Christie is a genius. I had no idea who the killers were until the very end. There's a copy circulating through the band. I'll let you borrow it when they get here."

Brennan waved away the offer. "Thank you but I've read it. Yes, the author is talented but my heroine is nothing like Miss Marple. Her name is Kathy and she doesn't just observe her surroundings and take note of obscure clues. She is actively involved in the investigation. She solves murders by examining the body and determining how death occurred, which in turn leads her to the killer. She isn't an elderly woman, either. She's young and vibrant and energetic."

Angela pursed her lips to hide a smile as Brennan's cheeks pinkened under her knowing gaze. "Young, vibrant and energetic, huh? And can figure out how someone died by looking at their body? Sounds familiar."

Brennan cleared her throat with a little cough and avoided Angela's eyes by concentrating on brushing non-existent dust from the keys of the typewriter. "Yes, well, it only makes sense to use the scientific knowledge I've gained from my studies. Even with the course on hold at Georgetown, I've been able to keep up the work on my own, albeit at a slower pace."

"Of course, it only makes sense." Laughing, Angela let her off the hook and hooked her hands over one knee. "So, tell me about the handsome detective. Who is he modeled on? Gary Cooper? Clark Gable? Oh! Humphrey Bogart!"

Brennan looked at her with a puzzled frown etching a line between her eyebrows. "What do you mean? Kathy solves the crimes. There is no detective, handsome or otherwise."

Angela shook her head vigorously. "No no no no. There has to be a handsome detective. Who else is Kathy going to fall in love with?"

That argument didn't sway Brennan. "Why does she have to fall in love with anyone?"

"Because she does," Angela insisted. "You want women to read your book, right? Then you have to give them a handsome detective."

The set of Brennan's jaw turned mulish. "Miss Marple doesn't have a handsome detective."

"Like you said, she's old," Angela retorted. "A young woman needs a handsome detective. Someone to sweep her up in his arms and say things like, 'You need to be kissed and kissed often!'"

Confusion returned to Brennan's face. "Wasn't that Rhett Butler?'

"Yes!" Angela cried in triumph. "And it worked! Tell me you didn't swoon a little when he said that. If Scarlett needs Rhett then your Kathy needs . . . somebody."

Brennan thought back to the movie released to great acclaim a few years previously. The women in the audience had, well, _swooned_ over Clark Gable's smouldering masculinity as the roguish Rhett Butler. Her head dipped. "I'll think about it."

"Can I read it?"

Brennan's hand moved swiftly to guard the drawer again. "No, it's not finished."

Angela's eyes sparkled at the protective gesture but otherwise didn't mention it. "I mean, when you add in the handsome detective. It sounds like you might need a little help with the swoony bits."

Brennan mentally compared the technical plot of her unfinished novel to the rapturous expressions of the women in the audience for _Gone with the Wind_ , and sighed. "You may be right."

"Then it's a deal. In the meantime, we better get some sleep." Yawning again, Angela scooted down to the end of the bed and tugged the covers free of the neatly tucked corners Brennan had created that morning. Settled beneath them, she stretched out on her side and nudged Brennan's pillow over a few inches with one foot. "There you go, plenty of room. Are you still planning on going to the Hamilton with me tomorrow?"

Brennan approached the bed somewhat hesitantly. An awkward, pedantic child, she'd been more interested in books than friends and other than her brother when they were small children, and Sully during the short time they were lovers, she'd never shared a bed with anyone. After switching off the bedside lamp, she slid beneath the covers and turned on her side, too, lying in stiff repose for several minutes before she realized that she hadn't responded to Angela's question.

"Yes, I'm happy to go with you. If we have time after that, perhaps you would like to visit my office? I would be interested in your thoughts on my plans so far."

"Sounds like a fair trade to me."

The room settled into the hushed quiet of night. Just when Brennan thought Angela had fallen asleep, her arm fell casually over the sheet-covered mound of Brennan's feet.

"You're not ticklish, are you?"

Brennan's eyes popped open in alarm. "What?"

Muffled laughter rippled through the darkness. "Just kidding. Good night."

.

.

Angela's professional knowledge was another stroke of good luck for Brennan. A lifetime spent following her father's mercurial touring had left her education somewhat limited in the traditional sense, but had in exchange given her valuable insights into managing the wide variety of details necessary for a touring entertainment group. She took one look at the outline Brennan had drawn up for performance dates and immediately shook her head.

"No, this won't work. You can't do one city every three days."

Brennan pulled out the file of train schedules she'd collected and frowned. "Why not? Most of the locations are within a four-to-six hour train ride of the previous stop. That should allow plenty of time for setting up at the new venue."

"No, you're thinking like a single traveler and not like a group of people traveling together. And you haven't scheduled any time off," Angela pointed out. "If you don't give people a break, they'll end up quitting on you by the end of the second week."

Without asking, she plucked a yellow wooden pencil from a cup on Brennan's desk, and began writing on the back of one of her carefully-typed sheets.

"This is the kind of schedule you want. Your first performance is a little different because you're just getting started but after that, you can get into a regular routine. Start with performance day," she said, listing each one separately as she continued. "Then travel day, handshake day, then performance day again for your second show and then it's just the routine. Day off, then travel day, handshake day, performance day, day off. Then start all over with the travel day, handshake day, performance day, and so on. And it would be nice, too, if you threw in an extra day off every so often."

Brennan tapped the list with the tip of one fingernail. "What is a handshake day?"

"A necessary evil," Angela grimaced. "All of these cities have mayors who will want to get their picture in the newspaper with you. Plus there's always a Junior League, or the mayor's wife has a garden club or whatever. And you can probably count on a governor or two showing up, too. If you add in a handshake day, you're covered, plus that gives your crews extra time to set up the stage."

Brennan took the pencil out of Angela's hand. "We don't have time for that."

Angela snatched it back. "Make time," she said sternly. "Otherwise, someone will feel insulted or get their feelings hurt and believe me, you don't want that. Local governments can make things really easy for you, or they can create all kinds of problems. Suddenly, you'll need a permit that you didn't know about, or they'll show up and fine you for a registration fee you didn't pay, or whatever. The best way to handle them is to plan ahead and give them one night to shake your hands and take your picture. It will be easier in the long run."

Before the afternoon was over, Angela's advice had been of such use that Brennan offered her a job. It was the first time since they'd met that she'd seen Angela speechless.

"A job? A real job? You mean, with a paycheck and everything?"

"It would be temporary, of course," Brennan was quick to point out. "I don't have the authority to hire you for a permanent position at the Treasury so when the tour is over, the job will end, too."

Angela continued to stare at her, stunned. "But you'll pay me to work with you on the tour?"

"Yes. I don't know how much your father pays you but - -"

Angela burst out laughing. "My father doesn't pay me, I'm his daughter. I mean, he gives me pin money whenever I ask but he doesn't pay me."

Brennan did a few quick calculations in her head based on the budget she'd been given for the tour. "If you're interested, I can offer you $65 a month."

Angela blinked. When she remained silent, Brennan tried again.

"Alright, $70 but that's as much as I can offer."

"Yes! Yes, I accept! I accept!" Angela broke her silence with a loud squeal, then pulled Brennan into a quick, hard hug. "You know what? The next time I see those two boys, I'm going to buy them a bag of licorice."

.

.

Within a week they had a final schedule ready for the War Finance Committee. They sent it up the chain of command and waited.

And waited.

By day three, they were on tenterhooks. Hacker, who was on the Committee, was mysteriously unable to comment and Perotta's prosaic "the wheels of government turn slow" didn't keep Brennan and Angela from worrying about what the delay meant for their carefully constructed plans. When the response finally came, even Hacker was astounded.

Perotta took the call. When she hung up, she approached Brennan's office with slow steps. Since the door was open, she stopped at the threshold and cleared her throat with a cough.

"Dr. Brennan. You're wanted upstairs. In the Secretary's office."

Hacker came rushing out of his office, a'flutter as always at the mention of his boss. "The Secretary's office? Why? Does he want me to bring her up?"

Perotta shook her head. "That was Miss Crabtree on the phone," she said, mentioning the dragon who zealously guarded the Treasury Secretary's schedule. "She asked that Dr. Brennan come up right away. Alone."

Hacker blustered for a few seconds as the women exchanged anxious looks, then gave Brennan what was clearly meant to be a reassuring smile. "Well. I'm sure he just has a few questions. You'll be fine. Maybe just don't insist on being called Doctor," he added, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. "He is the Secretary of the Treasury and you're just a woman, so . . ."

The unwanted advice put the steel back in Brennan's spine. "I may be just a woman but I have earned that title. I don't believe it's asking too much to be addressed as such."

With a haughty little sniff and a toss of her hair, she marched out of the office. Nervousness forgotten, her umbrage took her past the clunky mechanical elevator cage to the stairs and lasted all the way up to the fourth floor, until she strode into the Secretary's suite of offices.

Brennan's steps came to a halt as heads turned her way at her abrupt entrance. Nerves tingling, she had a moment of fleeting regret that she hadn't checked her lipstick before running out of Hacker's office as she looked across the room, at the secretaries sitting behind tiny desks and men in dark suits talking quietly in small groups. Squaring her shoulders, she approached a desk three times as large as any other in the room, with two phones placed squarely in the middle, and a stock ticker spitting out tape beside it. The steel-haired woman sitting there looked at her over a pair of half-moon glasses connected to beaded lanyards and raised one finger as she ended a call.

"Yes, Miss Martin, I understand. Please tell Senator Truman that I will make certain the Secretary gets the message. Thank you." She dropped the receiver back in the cradle. "Dr. Brennan, yes? The Secretary is waiting for you."

Prepared to stand her ground and insist on the use of her title, Brennan was taken aback when it proved to be unnecessary. She hurried to catch up as the woman opened one of a set of double doors standing tall behind her desk.

"Mr. Secretary? Dr. Brennan is here." A rumbling burr came from behind the doors, and Brennan was ushered inside.

The office stretched as wide as the suite itself. A massive desk occupied pride of place, with yet another stock ticker clicking quietly beside it, in front of a series of windows that looked out on a statue Brennan knew to be that of Alexander Hamilton. Glass-fronted bookcases lined one wall, opposite a seating area that included a sofa and two armchairs. Brennan took it all in at a glance before focusing on the man sitting behind the desk, which had been cleared of everything but a single, inch-thick file and, she noticed, swallowing, a copy of the plan she had submitted to the War Finance Committee.

Treasury Secretary Henry Morganthau, Jr. stood at her entrance. Slightly shorter than average height, he was in his mid-fifties, with a balding head and pince-nez glasses perched on his nose. Although she'd caught glimpses of him moving through the Treasury offices, Brennan knew him only by reputation as the man who'd fought J. Edgar Hoover to insist that Treasury handle their own investigations of corruption during Prohibition. Meeting him now, she was surprised at the air of scholarly authority that surrounded him as he stretched out a hand toward her. The bookish, intellectual aura put her at her ease.

"Dr. Brennan, I apologize for the somewhat peremptory order. It's necessary, sometimes, when I have an unexpected break in my calendar. Thank you for meeting with me." He picked up the documents on his desk and waved toward the seating area as he moved in that direction. "Let's take a seat over here, shall we? We'll be more comfortable."

Brennan perched on the edge of one of the armchairs, and sat straight-backed and tall, with her ankles crossed and hands lying loosely on her knees. "I'm more than happy to meet at your convenience, Mr. Secretary. How can I be of assistance?"

Morganthau laid the tour schedule on the coffee table in front of the sofa and spent a few moments thumbing through the file Brennan had noticed before. When he looked up, his sharp brown eyes met hers through the gleaming lenses of his glasses. "Are you familiar with the Reverend Father Arthur O'Leary?"

The question took Brennan aback. "Well, yes. I mean to say that I know who he is. He's the President of Georgetown University."

"Yes, that's correct." Morganthau discarded the file and leaned back, crossing his legs and stretching one arm along the top of the sofa. "The Reverend Father and I are rather well acquainted. I suppose that might strike some as an odd friendship, the Jesuit priest and a Jew, but," he shrugged, "war makes for odd bedfellows. Would you like to know how Father O'Leary described you to me?"

Stunned, Brennan could only shook her head lightly. "I wasn't aware that Father O'Leary knew me at all, Mr. Secretary."

An eyebrow crooked upward as Morganthau's lips curved with the hint of a smile. "How many times was your application for the new Forensic Anthropology program at Georgetown rejected before you were finally admitted?"

Brennan stiffened as a tide of red warmed her cheeks. The unfair denials, based, she was convinced, solely on her gender, still stung. "Four," she replied curtly.

Morganthau nodded, almost it seemed, with approval. " _Fierce determination and single-minded focus_. Those are the words Father O'Leary used to describe you. I understand that you're still registered as a student at the university, even with your program on hold."

Utterly confused now, Brennan had no idea where the conversation was headed. "Well, yes. I wanted to maintain access to the library, so that I could continue working on my own until the war was over and the program resumed."

"Fierce determination and single-minded focus," Morganthau murmured again. Then his expression grew somber, and all traces of humour left his face. "Dr. Brennan, are you aware of what's happening to the Jewish population in the countries occupied by the Germans?"

Despite the sunshine outside, it felt as if a dark cloud had settled over the room. Brennan found herself unable to look away from his shuttered gaze. A shiver ran across her shoulders.

"I . . . I've read some reports . . . There were a few small pieces in the papers . . . Rumours, surely, nothing verified. The stories are too horrific to be true . . . aren't they?"

Even before Morganthau spoke, Brennan knew.

"The truth is worse than the rumours," he said quietly. "The Nazis call it the 'final solution.' They mean to exterminate the entire Jewish population, and they've already started. Villages, whole communities, have been rounded up and sent to their deaths. Women. Children." He sighed heavily. "Infants. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands have already been murdered."

He leaned forward to offer Brennan the handkerchief out of his pocket, and waited while she dabbed away the tears spilling down her cheeks.

"I know you've wondered why you've been asked to take on this bond drive. Well, we need to end this war, Dr. Brennan. More than that, we need to _win_ this war. That's going to cost money, a lot of money, and everyone in my office is trying to find it. That drive and determination Father O'Leary saw in you? I need that. Your country needs that. Do you understand?"

Brennan took a deep, wavering breath to compose herself, then nodded. When she offered the handkerchief back, the Treasury Secretary gave a little wave and reached for the tour outline.

"Keep it. Now, about this schedule . . . It's nothing like the outline that was sent to you." His eyes met hers again, this time narrowed and sharp. "You're skipping Chicago for Cincinnati and Louisville. You don't want to go to Philadelphia but you have Pittsburgh on here. And you have a stop in Providence, Rhode Island but not Boston."

Back in control of herself, if only by the thinnest of margins, Brennan nodded and gestured to the copy Morganthau held. "Yes, sir. I believe the largest population centers have been over-saturated with this type of event. As you can see from the background material I included, figures from right here in Treasury prove that sales of E-series bonds and outright donations fell at a noticeable rate during each subsequent bond drive held in the same location within the same calendar year. If we bring the same high-profile event to cities that don't generally host them, we can take advantage of the excitement and newness to raise additional funds."

Morganthau picked up one sheet which showed columns of differing sizes and colors. "What is this?"

"I call that a bar graph," Brennan explained proudly. "It shows the funds raised in New York City in 1942. There were nine separate events that year and as you can see, each one raised less than - -"

Morganthau was still studying the chart itself. "How did you make this?"

"Oh, Angela drew it for me. Angela Montenegro," she explained, when the Secretary raised an eyebrow. "I've hired her to assist me. She's the daughter of Billy Gibbons, the band leader, so she understands what it takes to plan this kind of tour. I also discovered that she's quite a talented artist. I did the math and told her what I wanted, and she drew the different columns and colored them in with Crayola crayons. It's very effective, isn't it?" Brennan added, correctly noting Morganthau's fascination with the chart.

"Very," he murmured. "Would you and Mrs. - -"

"Miss," Brennan interrupted.

"- - Miss Montenegro be willing to teach some of my analysts the method you used to create this?"

Brennan didn't hesitate. "Of course."

Morganthau carefully set the vivid chart aside and reached for another. "Now about the length. We had something around six weeks in mind. What you've given me is a schedule for ten weeks."

"We had a difficult time deciding what cities to cut."

Morganthau smiled at the somewhat sheepish admission and reached in his pocket for the fountain pen he kept there. "Let me help you with that," he said, as he ruthlessly struck heavy lines through a third of the cities listed. He handed it back to Brennan. "Here. You can have seven weeks, with the stops you have listed. If this approach works, Dr. Brennan, I may put you in charge of bond drives for the rest of the war."

Pleased that he was willing to take a chance on her strategy, Brennan smiled back. "I would happily accept the challenge."

" _Fierce determination and single-minded focus."_ Morganthau tapped one finger against his temple, then rose to his feet. When Brennan stood, too, he offered her his hand in farewell. "Oh, one last thing. Is Captain Booth on board? I want him out there for every show."

"I haven't spoken with him yet," Brennan admitted. "My first priority was putting the schedule together and getting it approved."

"It's approved as revised, so go get him," Morganthau ordered, as he opened the door and ushered her out of his office. "I want you on the road in two weeks."

.

.

For Booth, the weeks spent at home were a time of rest and healing. Although warned by his doctors that the damage to the underlying muscles and nerves in his feet meant that he would never again be completely free of pain, his feet at last healed enough to allow for almost normal movement. For Booth, it was enough. Limping or not, he was cleared to fly again . . . or at least, he would be when he was allowed to return to his unit.

"But who knows when that will be," he groused to Pops over a lunch of ham salad sandwiches and lemonade. The heat of the spring afternoon had driven the two men out to the front porch, where they ate and watched the kids playing in the street, scattered now and then by the honk of a car travelling by. "I can't do anything until they're through pushing me out like a trained pony, and for all I know, there's not even anyone in charge of that yet! No one's contacted me about it at all! Not once!"

Pops had heard the same gripe repeatedly, and let it flow over him like water. "Now, don't be in such a hurry to get yourself shot at again. To tell the truth, it's been kinda nice having someone to talk to besides the wireless."

Booth felt a twinge of regret at the gentle scold, until he reached for the glass of lemonade and caught a glimpse of the newspaper folded underneath his plate. Headlines screamed out the latest battle reports and casualty count.

"Men are dying out there, Pops," he said quietly. "I should be out there, too, doing my part."

Pops reached over the small wrought-iron table and patted his arm. "I know, son. You'll get back soon enough. Soon enough."

The tinkle of a bicycle's bell turned both men's heads toward the sound. Booth rose to his feet, dread forming a hard knot in his throat when he saw the telegraph uniform worn by the teenage rider. It was only when he also noticed that the boy was alone, that no dark sedan was pulling in at the curb and disgorging men in uniform, that he relaxed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pops sit back, too, breathing a sigh of relief.

The boy rode his bike across the narrow bit of grass that flanked the sidewalk and stopped right at the porch. He braced his feet on the ground and reached into the messenger bag strung across his chest.

"This is 421 Pinehurst, right? I've got a telegram for Captain Seeley J. Booth."

"That's me, kid." Booth reached out a hand for the yellow envelope, then frowned when the boy just looked at him expectantly. With a roll of his eyes, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. He held out a shiny dime. "Here you go."

"Thanks, mister!" The boy pocketed the dime with a cheerful grin and slapped the envelope into Booth's hands. The bell tinkled again as he rode away. Booth, busy ripping open the envelope, didn't notice.

PLANS FINAL FOR 7WK 10 CITY TOUR STOP  
WILL ARRIVE PHIL MAY 25 TO REVIEW SCHEDULE STOP  
PREPARE FOR RETURN TO DC MAY 27 STOP  
DR T BRENNAN

Booth read it to himself silently, and then out loud for Pops. The black scowl was back.

"What the hell . . . I don't hear anything for weeks and then some pencil pusher sends me a telegram telling me to be packed and ready in four days. Four days!"

Pops just shrugged and pushed his chair back on two legs. His hands rested over his stomach. "Weren't you just complaining about not hearing from them? Now you have."

The rumbling teasing barely registered. He shook the telegram until the paper rattled. "Do you know what this means? If I have to spend seven weeks bouncing around on stage like a circus clown, it will probably be three months before I get back to my unit. Three months, Pops! What are these people thinking?"

Pops waved hello when a friend across the street stepped out onto his porch and called out a greeting. "Sounds like something you should ask that doctor fella when he gets here to pick you up."

Booth's angry glare was almost hot enough to burn holes in the thin telegraph paper. "Oh, you can bet I'll be having a few words with this Dr. T. Brennan."

.

.

Four days later, Brennan paid the cab fare, then waited beside it while the driver hurried around to pull her small suitcase out of the trunk. As was the case for many other positions where the men were off fighting in the war, the job of cab driver was being done by a woman. Middle-aged and plump, with a wreath of grey-streaked curls surrounding the hat stuck low on her head, the woman had maintained a steady stream of friendly chatter for the entire ride. Now, she dropped the suitcase at Brennan's feet and gave her a pat on the arm.

"Here you go, 421 Pinehurst. Now you're sure you don't want me to wait, honey? I don't mind. I don't mind at all."

"Thank you, Thelma, but that won't be necessary." Brennan added a smile to show her appreciation for the offer, even as she rejected it. "I'm not sure how long I'll be, and I don't want to keep you from other fares."

"Alrighty then." Thelma nodded and rounded the hood of the cab. "Now don't forget, when you're ready, you just call Oakgrove 926 and the garage will send someone right out. Oakgrove 926, got it? That will get you right to Liberty Bell Taxi Service. We got 12 cars so there's always someone waiting for a call. We'll take care of you."

"Oakgrove 926," Brennan repeated dutifully, and waved goodbye as the cab drove away. Alone again, except for the curious stares her arrival had garnered, she picked up her suitcase and glanced down the street. The simple two-lane road was crowded with staid sedans parked on both sides and lined with row houses that looked equally as sturdy and solid. Hanging in most of the windows was a service banner, a narrow white flag banded in red with a blue star in the center. Some of them, she noticed, like the one hanging at house number 421, had more than one star, and on too many, the blue stars had been replaced with gold. Brennan considered the two blue stars in the window of the house in front of her, then, chin up and shoulders squared, marched up the steps of the small porch.

The front door was open, the entrance barred instead by a flimsy wood-framed screen door that allowed the warm summer air to flow in. The rooms inside were hidden in shadows but Brennan could just make out a staircase tucked against one wall, and part of a bright square of window at the end of a hallway. She set her suitcase down again and rapped quickly on the door. Almost immediately, a gravelly bass voice could be heard over the tinny sound of music playing.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on, I'm coming."

Based on the stooped outline and the light glinting on the white hair of the figure coming toward her, Brennan knew that she wasn't meeting Captain Seeley Booth, even before the old man stepped into full view. His face lit up with a wide smile as the door opened with a squeak of hinges.

"Well, well, well. You don't look like Frank Calahan come to lose another game of checkers. What can I do for you, pretty lady?"

Immediately charmed by the roguish twinkle in the faded blue eyes, Brennan offered her hand. "My name is Dr. Temperance Brennan. I'm here to meet with Captain Booth. I believe he's expecting me."

The old man's jaw dropped. "You're Dr. T. Brennan? Well, if that don't beat all. Come in, come in!" he said, chuckling as he took a few steps back. "The boy is expecting Dr. Brennan all right, but I can't rightly say he's expecting you."

Brennan noticed his gaze drop to her suitcase as she crossed the threshold and into a comfortable, if somewhat shabby, living room. "I apologize for carrying my belongings with me. There was a mix-up at the hotel where I'm staying. They assumed the reservation was for a man and didn't have a room on the women's floor available when I tried to check in. They said it will be straightened out by this evening."

Hank waved her to a pair of armchairs bracketing a table where a wireless radio held pride of place. He switched it off, silencing the music she'd heard. "Well, you don't have to worry about that now. I've got an extra room upstairs you can have. I'll have Shrimp carry your bag up when he gets here."

Brennan wasn't sure which part of that extraordinary offer to respond to first. "Er . . . Shrimp? I mean, thank you but I couldn't possibly . . ."

"Nothing doing. No lady is going to stay by herself in a hotel if Hank Booth has anything to say about it." He pointed to a chair with a peremptory finger. "Now sit."

She sat.

"How about some lemonade? Gertie a few doors down keeps us supplied. Truth be told, I think she's sweet on Seeley but she makes good lemonade anyway. I'll be right back."

Before Brennan could say anything else, Hank ambled down the hallway toward the window she had noticed from outside. She took the opportunity to look around. The furniture seemed decades old, although well cared for, with an upright piano gleaming with polish shoved against one wall. Several framed photos lined the top of the piano, including a copy of the same photo she'd seen in Booth's file, and another of a younger man in a sailor's uniform who could only be his brother. Next to it was a smaller frame with another soldier's photo, this one from the Great War, and beside it, an even smaller sepia-tinted picture of an unsmiling couple in formal wedding clothes. Hank's return prevented Brennan from studying the photos more closely. She sipped gratefully from the sweet beverage, the first refreshment she'd had since getting on the train in DC that morning.

"Mr. Booth - -"

"Hank," he insisted, settling down himself in the other armchair. "I can't have a pretty lady calling me Mister, now can I? Makes me feel old."

The roguish gleam was back, and Brennan couldn't help but smile. "Hank. I appreciate your offer of lodging but I really can't accept - -"

"Yes, you can," he interrupted again. "Why, my Margaret would come out of her grave if she knew I let you stay by yourself at a hotel. Besides, there's a nice big room up there going to waste since those stairs got to be too much for me. Shrimp can put some clean sheets on and you'll be cozy as a kitten. And if you don't mind an old man bragging, I make a mean pan of scrambled eggs of the morning."

Accepting that he wouldn't take no for an answer, Brennan finally nodded. The reference to the tiny crustacean, however eluded her. "Shrimp?"

"I guess that would be Captain Booth to you," Hank laughed. "My grandson. He wasn't always as big as he is now, of course, and I guess old habits die hard."

Brennan glanced around the room, toward the stairs. "Is Captain Booth here? I did send a telegram notifying him that I would arrive today. We have a great deal to go over before we leave on Thursday."

Hank jerked a thumb at the front door. "He went out an hour or so ago. One of the neighborhood kids got a brand new Louisville slugger for his birthday and a bunch of 'em took it down to the empty lot to break it in." He pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt. "Come on, I'll take you down there."

Brennan quickly set the half-empty glass of lemonade on the table next to the wireless and got to her feet. "You don't have to do that. I'm sure I can find him myself."

Hank just shook his head as he lead her to the door. "I won't hear of it. Believe me, sweetheart, there's nothing I'd rather do right now than introduce you to Seeley."

The walk was slow to accommodate his shuffling gait but Hank proved to be an entertaining companion as he and Brennan made their way down the sidewalk. After asking her about the tour she'd organized, he listened in amazement as she described the stops she had planned.

"And you put all that together yourself?"

"Oh, no," Brennan demurred. "I had help. And of course there will be crews of workmen traveling with us, and men from the Treasury Department who will handle the actual sales."

"Sounds to me like you're the one in charge, though. Brains and beauty. You know, I always told my boys that if a man found that combination, he only had two choices: run away quick, or give up and marry her."

Brennan couldn't help but respond to his charm. "And what are the woman's choices?"

"Well," said Hank, giving her a playful wink, "that depends on whether she wants to be caught."

Brennan's burst of laughter carried them past the end of the sidewalk and onto the hard-packed dirt and grass of the unfinished lots at the end of the street. A few yards away, a group of men and boys had created a make-shift baseball diamond out of boards and empty flour sacks. A young boy stood at home plate, a dirt-smeared brown bat resting on his shoulders as he watched an older youth wind up for a pitch. No one seemed to be using a baseball glove.

Hank stopped at the edge of the grass, bringing their journey to a halt, and pointed toward what served as right field.

"That's Seeley right there. It's probably killing him to be in the outfield," he said, in an aside to Brennan. "He played shortstop in high school but the way his feet are now . . ."

Brennan followed the direction of Hank's finger. She noticed the slight hesitancy in the few steps he took closer to the batter but the small impairment was soon forgotten as she studied the famous pilot. The photos she'd seen in his file were a pale imitation of the man in front of her. Tall, with thick brown hair and a rugged, craggy profile, he had broad shoulders set off by a pair of suspenders worn over a dusty gray shirt. The sleeves were rolled up almost to his elbows and even from a distance, she could see the flex of muscles in his forearms as he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled.

"Come on, Danny! Throw it like Raffensberger!"

Without warning, Hank raised his hands, too, and called out, "Seeley! Over here, son! Seeley! Look who's here! It's Dr. Brennan!"

Booth turned toward the sound of Hank's voice. His eyes met Brennan's as the crack of a bat hitting a baseball broke through the air.

Unable to look away from the dark, penetrating gaze holding hers, Brennan gasped as her heartbeat stuttered and restarted with a heavy thump. Her fingers fluttered against her throat when Booth took a step toward her.

Then the baseball glanced off the side of his head, and he went down without a sound.


	8. Dinners and Matchmakers

For a fraction of an instant, the world stood still. Then pandemonium broke out.

Cries of panic and worry filled the air as the impromptu baseball game was forgotten in the mad dash to reach Booth. Brennan left Hank shuffling behind her and arrived just as someone rolled Booth's unresponsive form onto his back.

"Let her through," Hank wheezed as he caught up. "Let her through, she's a doctor."

"I'm not a medical . . ." Brennan bit off the automatic response as the circle around Booth widened to admit her. Despite her lack of a qualified medical degree, she was confident that she had more knowledge of human anatomy than anyone else there. Heedless of the dust and dirt grinding into her skirt, she knelt down.

Her first impression was one of size and brawny masculinity. Impossibly broad shoulders framed a strong, sinew-wrapped torso, and the flex of muscles she'd noticed in his arms was even more obvious in close proximity. Swallowing past a suddenly dry throat, she glanced down the length of the strong male body laid out in front of her.

"Is he dead? He's dead, isn't he? I killed him! I killed Seeley! They're gonna send me to the chair!"

Hank draped an arm around the weeping young batter's shoulder and hugged him close. "Nobody's getting the chair, son," he growled, finally getting his breath back. "If the Nazis can't get Shrimp, then a little thing like a baseball won't either. If anything, you might want to check that ball and see if his head put a dent in it."

"Captain Booth isn't dead," Brennan confirmed. She laid two fingers over the pulse beating under the warm skin of Booth's neck, raised both eyelids to look at his pupils, then lifted his head and ran her hand over the back of his skull. "There's no blood, and his pupils react to light. There's a fairly large contusion on his occipital bone but no fracture that I can feel. He should go to the hospital," she added, looking up at Hank, "but I think it's just a concussion."

The crowd of men and boys shifted uneasily as they repeated Brennan's words to each other. "What's a concussion?" one asked suspiciously.

"It's a minor injury to the brain." When they reacted with alarm, Brennan tried to explain. "The impact of the baseball striking his head probably created a kind of whiplash that pushed his brain against his skull, resulting in a momentary loss of consciousness."

Meant to be reassuring, her words had the opposite effect. Shock and fear swept through the group. "His brain is hurt? Is he going to be able to walk again?"

In other circumstances, Brennan might have laughed. Now, however, she just scanned their anxious faces with a frown. "Yes," she said slowly. "He'll walk again. He may need a few days' rest but if there is no lasting injury he should be fine."

Thankfully, Booth chose that moment to stir. A moan escaped, rumbling beneath Brennan's hand where it rested on his chest. She leaned in, peering closely at his face as he grimaced in pain.

"Captain Booth? Can you hear me? Captain Booth?"

Booth's eyes twitched, then blinked open one by one. His bleary gaze fixed on Brennan, hovering above him and framed by a halo of sunshine. He smiled.

"Well hello, beautiful." Before Brennan had a chance to react, he cupped one hand around the back of her head and brought her lips down to meet his in a searing kiss.

Shock held her immobile for a brief moment before she responded instinctively to the firm touch of his mouth on hers, and the heat radiating from the strong body stretched out beside her. When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, they parted for him with a husky murmur. Her fingers dug into the solid wall of his chest as his tongue swept into her mouth, sending flames skittering through her veins and flooding her senses with the taste of velvet and spice.

The hoots and catcalls surrounding them broke the spell. Appalled at her loss of control, Brennan slapped her palm repeatedly against Booth's shoulder until his grip loosened. She pulled away from him abruptly.

"Sir! You forget yourself!"

Booth only smiled and reached for her again. "Don't worry, honey, I hear it's like riding a bike. I'll catch up quick."

Cheeks flaming, Brennan scrambled out of his reach and jumped to her feet, brushing ineffectually at her skirt. Avoiding everyone's gaze, she touched her lips where they burned with the imprint of his.

"As you can see, Captain Booth has regained the use of his faculties."

Smothered laughter erupted from the ring of men and young boys. "Is that what they call it?"

Brennan ignored the off-colour snickers and stared at her feet as Booth pushed himself to a seating position. She looked up again when he groaned and raised a hand to gingerly explore the bump on the back of his head. "What the hell happened to me?"

"Danny hit you with a fly ball," one of the men explained.

Another man looked at Brennan and smirked. "Hey, doc, if Danny takes a swing at me, can I get a kiss, too?"

"You boys behave yourselves," Hank scolded. He turned his attention to Booth. "How you feeling, son?"

"Like I was hit in the head with a baseball," Booth winced. He moved as if to stand up, then fell back on his rump, grabbing his head again. "Whoa. Everything's spinning."

Brennan spoke up, her voice stiff with residual embarrassment. "Your equilibrium may be distorted for a time. You should go to the hospital."

"For a bump on the head? Nothing doing. I'm fine." Booth dismissed the suggestion immediately, although he didn't try to get to his feet again.

Brennan noticed. She held up three fingers. "Are you? How many fingers am I holding up? What year is it? Can you name the President of the United States?"

"Sweetheart, if you don't know who the president is, maybe _you_ should go to the hospital."

Booth gave her a crooked smile that sent her pulse racing. Brennan reacted by tightening her jaw and thrusting her chin into the air. "Fine, but the effects of a concussion can linger. At the very least, you should not sleep for the next several hours."

At her words, Booth's eyes slid in a slow, lazy swoop down her slender form and back up. "Sounds good to me, doll. What did you have in mind?"

The frank sensuality in the dark gaze, coupled with the directness of the sexual overture, made Brennan gasp. The sound was lost when Hank smacked Booth in the head, directly over the injury caused by the baseball.

"Ow!"

"Watch your mouth. That's a lady you're talking to. Mind you treat her like one."

Booth glared balefully at his grandfather as he massaged the tender spot. "Did you miss the part where she was just kissing me?!"

Remembering the way he'd pulled her into the kiss in the first place, Brennan took immediate exception to the way he described it. "I beg your pardon!"

"You can beg whatever you want," Booth shot back, "but I know a kiss when I get one."

Hank's ire disappeared as he watched the sparks fly between them. Not bothering to hide his amusement, he planted his hands on his hips and grinned at Booth. "Son, before you swallow any more of that foot you're stuffing down your throat, you might want to know that this here is Dr. Brennan."

Booth's hand slowly fell away from the back of his head as his mouth dropped open. He looked Brennan up and down again, this time without a sexually-charged leer. "You . . . You're Dr. T. Brennan? You're the one in charge of that circus I'm stuck with for the next seven weeks?"

Brennan took the comment at face value. "There are no circus acts involved in the bond drive. I've drawn up the plans myself and - -"

"While I was sitting here doing nothing," Booth interrupted, finding no humour in her serious response. The smokey desire in his eyes faded, replaced with a sense of frustration built over the past weeks. "It would have been nice if someone had told me what was going on!"

"I was told that you needed to rest and heal!"

"I was plenty able to do that and read letters, too!"

"I didn't think - -"

"Obviously!"

Hank decided it was time to step in. He chastised Booth with a look. "That's enough of that. It ain't her fault that the Army won't let you fly. Now come on, let's get you home. Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk." The bravado was perhaps premature, as it took three teammates to help Booth to a standing position, and even then, he wobbled with dizziness for a moment. Determined to make it on his own, he finally shook them off and managed a few halting steps on his own. Hank and Brennan stayed close as they began a slow trek across the grass, a fact that annoyed him even more. He cast an ill-tempered glance at Brennan. "So is this what you do, the bond drives? You put these things on for the government?"

With her attention on his feet and their progress across the uneven, rock-strewn field, Brennan missed the look. "No, this is the first bond drive with which I've been tasked. I'm an anthropologist."

"You're a what?" Booth stopped so quickly that he swayed in place. Brennan put a hand on his back to steady him, then immediately snatched it back as if stung by electricity. Hank shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye.

Uncomfortable under the all too perceptive appraisal in the old man's eyes, Brennan avoided his gaze and clasped her hands together behind her back. "An anthropologist."

"The people who put dinosaurs together?"

She grasped at the familiar topic as a way to take control of the conversation. "No, that's a paleontologist, although you may be confusing it with archaeology. My field is anthropology, which is the study of human civilizations and cultures. The differences can be subtle. You're not the first to conflate the two."

Booth swiveled to look at Hank, whose lips twitched as he shrugged. "Don't look at me. I can't even pronounce those words."

Dumbfounded, Booth turned back to Brennan. "If you don't know what the hell you're doing, why did they put you in charge of this thing?"

Brennan found the question insulting. Ignoring the implied chastisement of Booth's cursing behind Hank's suddenly loud throat clearing, she met his eyes with a pugnacious tilt of her chin. "Like you, Captain Booth, I am merely doing what I've been asked to do, to the best of my abilities. I assure you that I learn very quickly. I have excellent organizational skills and the Treasury Department is happy with my work."

Frozen in place, Booth stared at her as the seconds unspooled. Brennan stood stiffly under his regard, trying to remain dispassionate as her lips tingled with the memory of their kiss. When his gaze dropped to her mouth, she knew he was remembering that moment, too.

"You two just gonna stand here making googly eyes at each other or can we get home? I got supper to start."

Their startled jump apparently delighted the old man. With a gravel-filled chuckle drifting behind him, he set off again toward home, leaving Booth and Brennan to follow behind, enveloped in an awkward silence.

For his part, Booth's struggle to hold back a flood of questions was compounded by his attempt to ignore the pounding in his head and the painful ache in his feet that still accompanied each step. He quickly realized that pushing out thoughts of those physical realities left too much room in his head to brood over other, even more disturbing topics . . . like the woman walking beside him.

His eyes strayed in her direction over and over, skimming over her slender figure and lingering on the trim ankles and shapely calves revealed below the hem of her skirt. The flash of grass stains immediately raised the image of her bending over him when he'd come to, a vision of beauty, with sunshine striking sparks of fire in her hair, and eyes the color of a stormy, lightning-struck sky. The impulse to kiss her had been immediate and instinctive, one he'd given into without hesitation and she, Booth thought smugly, had kissed him back, no matter how much she might protest otherwise.

Thinking about that kiss now, about the softness of her lips and the sweetness of her breath filling his mouth, made the prospect of the hated bond drive marginally more welcome.

Lost in pleasant dreams of just how enjoyable the next seven weeks could be, the rest of the walk home passed quickly. Even injured, Booth was still quicker on his feet than Hank. He bounded up the steps and reached for the handle on the screen door to hold it open. His eyes fell on the small suitcase sitting at the foot of the stairs a fraction of a second before his grandfather jerked a thumb toward it.

"Take that upstairs. You can put it in my old room."

Booth's eyes flew to Brennan. "She's staying here? With us?"

Brennan's cheeks flushed pink. Already uncomfortable with Hank's demand that she stay with them, now she was mortified. "I am happy to return to the hotel . . ."

"We already settled that. You're staying here," Hank interrupted, adding a dark scowl for Booth that warned him that his grandfather would have words for him later. "We can't send a lady off to stay in a hotel all by herself. Ain't proper. Now, take her suitcase upstairs," he ordered again, "and get some clean sheets out of the airing cupboard, too. That bed probably hasn't been changed since I slept up there."

A lifetime of training meant that Booth responded in the only way he could. "Yes, sir."

Satisfied, Hank bestowed a soft smile on Brennan and patted her arm lightly. "Now that we've got the boy outta the way, why don't you come on back to the kitchen with me. I could use some company while I get that chicken in the oven."

Brennan followed his lead, grateful for a few minutes respite from Booth's moody, brooding presence. "Perhaps I could help . . ."

"Nothing doing. You're company."

Booth watched the two of them until they turned into the kitchen at the end of the hallway, then reached down for the small suitcase, which, he was surprised to note, was surprisingly heavy for its small size. Remembering the prim little speech Brennan had given about anthropology and archaeology, he grimaced as he heaved the case upstairs. _Probably full of books._

The headache had abated somewhat by the time Booth finished making up the bed in his grandfather's old room. He wiped down the heavy, out-of-date furniture with the threadbare remnant of an ancient towel, hoping that a casual mention of dusting would lessen the lecture he knew his grandfather planned to give him for embarrassing their guest. Not that he expected to avoid it completely; for all his somewhat rough edges, when it came to women, Hank Booth was a stickler for the niceties. He'd insisted that his grandsons learn good manners, too, lessons at times reinforced with the same kind of casual whack on the head he'd given Booth earlier. Booth grinned to himself as he closed the door behind him and headed downstairs. He couldn't complain too much about those lessons. Both he and Jared had learned at a young age just how . . . appreciative women could be of a show of gentlemanly behavior.

In the kitchen, he found Hank putting a match under a burner on the stove, while Brennan sat at the table with a bowl of raw potatoes in front of her. Hank immediately whipped the bowl away from her and stuffed it in Booth's stomach.

"Finish peeling these," he ordered peremptorily, "and cut them up small so they'll boil fast. We don't want to be waiting an hour just to mash 'em. No," he said to Brennan, waving away her immediate objection. "Won't be the first spud he's taken a knife to."

With their kiss hovering in the back of his mind, Booth sat down opposite Brennan without complaint, and gave her an easy smile as he reached for the knife she still held. "True enough. I think my first memory is standing on a stool at that very stove, stirring a pot of stew. Which just proves how old that stove is," he added, leaning toward her with a grin that put another blush in her cheeks. "Maybe you can help me talk him into getting a new one."

"Now that's a whopper if I ever heard one." Hank emptied a glass jar of home-canned green beans into a pot and put it over the lit burner. He ran a fond hand over a patch of chipped white enamel on the front of the stove on his way to the sink, where he rinsed out the glass jar and set it upside down on the draining board. "I bought this stove in 1934 from the Sears and Roebuck catalogue. You were already off flying for the mail service by then. There's a lot of use left in this old girl. No need to waste good money just cause she ain't so pretty anymore. You done with those potatoes yet?"

"Almost. Hand over a pot." When Hank dropped one in front of him, Booth diced up the potatoes with the expert motions of someone who knew what he was doing. He caught Brennan staring at the movement of his hands and gave her a smug little nod. "See? Not my first spud."

He rose to carry the pan to the sink; standing beside him, Hank patted the wide back with obvious affection, watching as Booth rinsed the potatoes, then filled the pot with water. "I taught both boys how to cook for themselves. I had to, seeing as how it was just us. Figured them learning how to cook meant a little less time at the stove for me, at least every once in a while."

He pulled a knife and a half a loaf of bread out of a wooden breadbox and brought them over to the table. Lowering his bulk into the chair Booth had vacated, he started slicing. "Pour the doc a glass of that lemonade Gertie brought last night, if there's some left," he said to Booth over his shoulder. "I'll take a glass, too."

Brennan smiled her thanks for the offer. "Please, call me Temperance."

Booth straightened abruptly from the icebox, a clear glass pitcher in his hand. The compressor attached to the top of the appliance sat at the same level as his head, like a big round boulder. "Temperance? What, are you a Quaker?"

The question seemed to annoy her. Her lips pursed in a way that had him holding back a grin. "No, it's simply my name."

Something about that tight facade and the pugnacious light of battle in her eyes struck a chord deep within Booth. He wanted to poke again, to puncture the frosty wall guarding what he suspected was a well of passion. He latched the door of the icebox closed and rested an elbow on top, raising the pitcher in his other hand in a somewhat mocking salute.

"Raised by teetotalers, huh. Guess it's a good thing this is just lemonade."

Without looking at either of the men, Brennan brushed at the grass stains that marred her skirt. "Actually, my father is Max Keenan."

The bald statement wiped the smile from Booth's face. His shocked gaze met Hank's, before they both stared at Brennan. Her eyes rose slowly to meet theirs.

Hank gave a little cough. "Max Keenan, the bootlegger?"

"Well, not since the end of Prohibition," Brennan said stiffly. Their reaction was no less than what she expected. "For obvious reasons."

"But your name is Brennan, not Keenan," Booth pointed out. His eyes flew to her ringless left hand. "Unless - -"

"My father gave my brother and I different names when he embarked on his . . . career. Given the . . . unsavory . . . individuals with whom he sometimes did business, he felt it would be safer for us if his family couldn't immediately be linked to him."

The prim little explanation raised as many questions as it answered. Booth ignored his grandfather's warning look as he delivered glasses of cold lemonade and pulled out a third chair at the table.

"Why didn't he change his name instead of yours?"

"I'm sure it didn't occur to him."

"What about your mother? And why didn't he change it back afterward? I mean, your father isn't a criminal anymore, right?"

Hank's warning look became a glare filled with stern rebuke. "Are you working for Hoover now? That's none of our business, Seeley. Stop asking so many questions - -"

"It's all right," Brennan said quietly. She sat straight and tall and held Booth's gaze without wavering. "My mother died in 1918, shortly before I turned seven, in the Spanish flu epidemic. As for my father, he is most comfortable living in the shadows of legitimate society. That's not an apology, it's just who he is and I have long since accepted that fact. If my mother had lived, perhaps he would have chosen a different path. But perhaps not. As I said, he is who he is. My brother and I lived with friends of the family, here in Pennsylvania in fact, in Salisbury. We were loved and cared for, and my father was there with us, except when he wasn't. We can't choose our families, Captain Booth. We can only hope to be judged by our own deeds."

The emphasis on his last name was subtle but Booth heard it nonetheless. He felt a twinge of regret, and more than a mere twinge of admiration for the pride that he recognized behind the steel in her eyes. Before he could apologize, his grandfather barked out a laugh.

"Well, ain't that the truth. The Booths have been trying to make up for our last name for almost eighty years. It's like I told my boys, John Wilkes had five brothers - well, six if you count the one my grandfather left in England - and only one of 'em shot the president."

Brennan pulled her eyes away from Booth and turned to Hank, happy to follow the change of subject. "I thought he had two brothers."

"Well, two that went on stage. Go stir those vegetables," he ordered Booth, as he sat back with his hands folded over his stomach. Booth obediently got up and walked the few steps to the stove, but kept a sharp ear on the conversation behind him. "Where was I? Yeah, the two actors are the only ones most people know about but there were six boys and a few girls, too. 'Course not all of them lived past their leading strings but that's how it was back then. Joseph, my daddy, was the baby of the family. He was a wanderer at heart. He was in medical school when they fired on Fort Sumter, then he took off for California and Australia and God knows where else. I think he made it to England, too, to meet that half-brother my grandfather just up and left there. He came back after the assassination, then finished his medical degree in Baltimore. That's where I was born, and my Joseph, too, after I finally talked Margaret into marrying me. Then I ran off to join Teddy Roosevelt in Cuba and we all ended up here."

"You were a Rough Rider?"

Booth found himself irritated by the fascinated look in Brennan's eyes as she listened to his grandfather's stories. He dropped a spoon on the counter with more force than necessary. "Potatoes are done."

"Mash 'em up then." There was a note of humour in the words, as if Hank heard the frustration in Booth's voice and recognized the hint of jealousy behind it. "Rough Riders, yeah, that's what TR called us. He liked a flashy nickname. But the truth is that we were just soldiers. The Booths have been fighting this country's wars since John Wilkes shot Lincoln. Like I said, trying to make up for the name."

"Your son fought in the Great War." It wasn't a question. Remembering Hayes Flynn's dry, " _There's a file on you,"_ Booth glanced over his shoulder in time to see Brennan's quick look in his direction. He pounded the potatoes a little harder. Everyone, it seemed, had read his file except him.

"Joe had a hard war," Hank sighed. "It changed him."

"It killed him." Booth kept his back to the room but he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"I thought he survived the war?"

Booth felt Brennan's gaze on him as he took a glass bottle of milk out of the ice box, dumped half of it in the potatoes, then put it back. He turned to face her; with the pot anchored in the bend of one elbow, he used a spoon to whip the potatoes into a creamy mound.

"He came back. There's a difference."

"Seeley - -"

"You know it's true, Pops," Booth said quietly. "What happened over there, the things he saw, it killed him inside. He drank himself to death," he said to Brennan. "He got a hold of some bathtub gin. God only knows what was in it but it burned a hole right through him. He collapsed on the street outside some dirty blind pig at the edge of town. He was dead before anyone could get to him. That gin pulled the trigger but the war is what really killed him. It just took a while to catch up with him."

He dropped the pot on the table between them as if to punctuate his statement. Hank immediately picked it up.

"Put that in a bowl. We got company tonight, we're not eating out of pots and pans. Use your grandmother's china so the table looks nice." He looked at Brennan as Booth removed the pot from the table. "I'm not saying he's wrong, but it wasn't just the war. Milly, she was the boys' mother, she died having Jared and I don't think Joe ever got over it. Then I lost Margaret to that Spanish flu, like what took your mother, while he was in France. It's a hard thing to tell a man in a letter that his mother's gone. Then both of the boys came down with it, too, and I was afraid for a while that I was going to have to write him that letter on top of the other one. They managed to pull through, though, thank the good Lord."

"So much tragedy." Brennan blinked away tears at the pain hidden behind the succinct history of the small family. Booth heard the catch in her voice as he placed a bowl of flower-painted china heaping with mashed potatoes on the table. The small break closed like a fist around his lungs.

Hank saw her tears, too, and reached out to pat her hand. "Now, now. That's enough of that. The Grim Reaper's got enough to do without us getting his attention over here. Besides, the three of us did just fine. Might not have been as sweet-smelling around here without a woman to pretty things up, but we managed all by ourselves just the same."

Booth followed his grandfather's lead and used humour to lighten the somber atmosphere. "Don't let him fool you, Doc," he said, as he carried the pot of beans to the sink to drain them. "There were a lot of women who wanted to hang an apron up in this kitchen. I don't think a week went by without someone dropping off a cake or a pie, or some other dish for us."

"Well now, I had growing boys to feed," Hank said, giving Brennan a playful wink. "Sacrifices had to be made."

Freed from the solemn moment, Brennan's husky laughter rippled through the room. Booth felt the sound wrap around him like warm silk, sliding over his skin as if she were touching him herself. He thought of their kiss again, and the way her fingers had dug into his chest as she responded. The heat from the memory glowed in his eyes when he sat another pretty painted bowl, this one filled with green beans, on the table directly in front of Brennan. He knew a moment of smug male satisfaction when her gaze skittered away from his.

"Thank you again for your hospitality," she said, somewhat breathlessly, as Booth returned to the stove. When the oven door opened with a squeak of old hinges, the rich scent of roasted chicken filled the air. "Everything smells delicious. I hope that my staying here won't force you to use extra ration stamps."

Hank pushed to his feet and stepped behind the table to the glass-fronted china cabinet Booth had left open. The plates he put on the table matched the elegant pattern on the bowls. A small tray was next, for the bread he'd already sliced, before the rest of the loaf went back into the breadbox.

"Nothing for you to worry about. My buddy Earl keeps chickens in his backyard and since his son moved his family down to Tennessee to work on some secret project for the army, he's got plenty of extra to spread around."

Booth, who had been keeping an ear tuned to their conversation while he carved the chicken, immediately spun around. "What secret project?"

Hank pulled silverware and delicate, lace-edged napkins from a drawer in the china cabinet. "I don't know. It's secret, ain't it? All I know is, Earl says that Georgie is making so much money, he's going to buy a house in Gladwyne when the war's over."

Booth whistled. The toney subdivision at the end of the Main Line was a pie-in-the-sky dream for most people, populated with the most wealthy denizens of Philadelphia and their families. Living there wasn't considered an option for a regular working stiff from their neighborhood. Hank grunted his agreement with Booth's unspoken surprise.

"He's making noise about moving Earl out there, too, but Earl says if he can't take his chickens, he's not going."

Booth laughed, as he carried a platter heaped with juicy slices of roast chicken to the table. "Chickens in Gladwyne. That'll be the day."

With the meal on the table, Booth poured the rest of the milk into a glass and sat down between Hank and Brennan. A fourth chair, just across from him, was left empty. A tall stack of newspapers and magazines on the seat offered proof that it was rarely used.

"I'm sorry that we're having to take our meal in the kitchen," Hank said, pulling out his own chair. He nodded toward a doorway set in the middle of the hallway. A heavy curtain hid the room behind it from view. "We have a dining room over there but when the stairs got to be too much for me, I turned it into a little bedroom for myself."

"There's no need to apologize. I'm happy to eat here with you."

Booth saw her glance down with surprise when Hank stretched his hands across the table. When Booth wrapped his fingers around his grandfather's and then laid his palm out for hers, she hesitated.

"We say grace in this house." Hank's gravel-filled tones left no doubt that he expected Brennan to participate, even if silently. Having grown up with that same tone demanding immediate obedience, Booth wasn't surprised when Brennan acquiesced without another word, laying one hand in each of theirs. With their hands joined, Hank bowed his head. "Seeley."

Booth saw her eyes flash to his in the second after Hank murmured his name, before he bowed his own head. Without conscious thought, his thumb stroked across her knuckles as he prayed.

"Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen." In unison, Booth and Hank released Brennan's hands, and made the sign of the cross over their chests.

"I'm guessing you don't do a lot of talking to the Lord," Hank said, as he reached for the potatoes.

Brennan took a thick, roughly carved slice of chicken from the platter. "Not really, no. My belief system is more . . . secular in nature."

Hank grunted. With a full plate in front of him, he began to eat. "Huh. Seems to me that at times like these, we could all use a direct line to the man upstairs."

"You mentioned a brother," Booth said casually, as he got up to retrieve a small Mason jar, filled with a generous amount of creamy butter, from the icebox. "Is he serving somewhere?"

Brennan took the jar when he offered it, and spread a thin layer across a piece of bread. "No, he's managed to avoid being called up so far. His daughter was born with a serious illness that grows worse each year," she explained, when the Booth men looked at her in surprise. "She almost died as an infant, but has surpassed every life expectancy milestone the doctors have given them so far. My sister-in-law is unable to care for her without help, however, and so far, the local authorities have been very understanding. My brother is also a very skilled mechanic, so he's been working on the machinery in the steel mills in Pittsburgh and that seems to satisfy the draft board, at least for now. Oh, my," she exclaimed suddenly, after biting into the butter-smeared slice of bread. "This is fresh butter, isn't it?"

"My buddy Ralph has a little farm just outside of town," Hank nodded. "A few cows, some pigs, that kind of thing. He stops by every couple of weeks and drops off whatever extra he's got."

"A neighbor with chickens, another with a farm." Brennan laughed. "If everyone had such a helpful circle of friends, there would be no need for rationing."

Hank's eyes twinkled. "Well now, that's the truth. Add in all the ladies around here wanting to show how happy they are to have Seeley back, and we haven't been going hungry, that's for sure."

"Pops." The warning tone in Booth's voice was impossible to miss but Hank just waved it off.

"What? You think none of them young ones have been hoping you'll give them a place to hang their apron up, too?" He leaned over the table toward Brennan as if he were sharing secrets. "Been like a railway station in here since he showed up, and every one of 'em carrying something in her hands. Gertie with the lemonade. Brenda Jean with apple cobbler. Mary Catherine with chocolate cake. The Widow Kowalski with a big pot of sausage and cabbage - -"

"Mrs. Kowalski is fifty years old!" Booth felt his cheeks redden under Brennan's amused gaze. He gave serious thought to kicking his grandfather's shin under the table.

"Nothing wrong with a woman with some life under her belt, son. If you get lucky, you'll find that out yourself. Speaking of baked goods, is there any of that pound cake Helen Scarett dropped off Sunday afternoon? 'Course she didn't make that herself," Hank added, for Brennan's benefit. "Pretty girl but her mother says that she can't boil water."

Booth scorched him with a look but scraped back from the table and stomped over to a plate covered with a high, round glass dome. He dropped the plate on the table in front of Hank with enough force that the fuzzy grey eyebrows rose.

"Careful now, unless you want to make a trip to Wanamaker's to buy another one." Hank offered Brennan a slice of the dense, yellow cake. "You'll have to excuse him, Temperance. He's so slow to talk about himself, you'd think God charged by the word. He's a bit touchy on the subject of women, too. Never had much luck, you see."

The comment was a step too far for Booth. Already uncomfortable, he had no intention of letting his grandfather dissect his failed love life in front of Brennan. He slammed a hand on the table, making silverware and plates jump. "POPS!"

Hank was too old to be intimidated by his grandson's show of temper. "What? There's nothing wrong with wanting a wife and family. You just haven't found the right woman yet. Let's see, there was that little girl you went with all through high school. What was her name? Regina? Roberta?"

Booth's teeth ground together so loudly, everyone heard it. "Rebecca."

The silver head nodded. "Right, right. Rebecca. Pretty little thing," he told Brennan. "They were crazy about each other but once they were done with school and it looked like it was becoming a serious thing, her father put an end to it. He wasn't going to let her marry a Catholic."

"Oh." Brennan glanced at the top of Booth's head, which was all she could see since he refused to look up.

"And then there was that Swedish girl," Hank continued blithely. "Heidi? No, Hannah. yeah, Hannah. That was after Shrimp here got his pilot's license. He was flying the governor around and she was the family's nanny, see. I thought that one might take but it wasn't meant to be. She wanted to see the world and settling down wasn't going to make that happen."

Booth looked up then, his jaw clenched so tight that his lips didn't move when he spoke. "Are you through?"

Hank frowned right back. "I don't know what you're getting so tetchy about. You and Temperance are going to be traveling together for two months. Might as well know a little about each other."

"I doubt the doc is interested in hearing about my old girlfriends, okay?"

"See, that's why you're not married yet," Hank scoffed. "You don't know nothing about women. They always want to hear about old girlfriends."

"Pops - -"

Brennan was as embarrassed as Booth. "Mr. Booth - - Hank, I'm sure . . ."

Hank waved them both to silence. "That's okay, I guess I'm through telling stories for the time being. I'll clean up in here. You two just run along to the front room. You probably have a lot to talk about, what with that bond thing coming up and all. If it won't interfere too much, turn on the wireless for me. The dishwashing goes faster if there's music to go along with it."

After the revelations of the last few minutes, the last thing Brennan wanted was to be alone with Booth. She surged to her feet as Hank began gathering dishes. "Perhaps I should stay and help - -"

It was no use. "Nothing doing. You're company. You and Seeley just take yourselves off. Go on," he said, shooing them toward the doorway. "Go on. If it's too warm in the front room, you could sit out on the porch."

Booth waited until Brennan was out of hearing range, then turned on his grandfather with a hiss. "Whatever it is you think you're doing, stop it!"

Hank scraped leftover food onto one plate. "I'm doing you a favor, is what I'm doing. Women like that doctor in there don't grow on trees. Smart, beautiful, and don't think I didn't notice that she wasn't exactly slapping your face for kissing her, either."

Booth huffed with exasperation. "Did you forget that there's a war going on? And that I'm headed right back into it when this tour thing is over?"

Hank merely shrugged. "That's two months away. A lot can happen in two months."

"Pops . . ."

"Why are you in here arguing with me when you could be sitting next to a pretty girl?" Hank pointed a finger toward the hallway. "Out. Now."

Booth looked into the faded but determined blue eyes and bit back the rest of the argument hovering on his lips. Ingrained respect for the man who had raised him had him bowing his head.

"Yes, sir."

He left his grandfather whistling to himself and headed toward the front room.

.

.

* * *

 _AN_ :

 _*I know Booth's father is canonically named something else but he's always been Joe to me, so Joe he is going to stay. Same with Margaret Booth. I have no idea if Pops ever gave his wife's name in the show, but Margaret she will always and forever be._

 _*Don't get me started on Mama Booth. Yes, I'm still bitter. My Milly would never._

 _*John Wilkes Booth's youngest brother Joseph was a real person, and the bullet points of his life story as Hank relates them here are true. He had one son, who died as a toddler. Welcome to the B &B family, Joe!_


End file.
